


Debra Morgan: Season 1

by Bone_Dry



Series: Debra Morgan: The Series [1]
Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 89
Words: 160,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bone_Dry/pseuds/Bone_Dry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deb narrates s1: It took about five years, but Debra Morgan finally got her transfer to Homicide-- her father's old pen and her brother's longstanding residence-- on the back of an investigation into a serial killer who would soon earn the moniker of the Ice Truck Killer. But things can always get better up until they get infinitely worse. COMPLETE, now with meta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fogged-Up Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> I love Debra Morgan. I think by s3 I was actively wishing the show would suddenly rebrand itself Debra, and by the time s5 rolled around I would've happily thrown Dexter through a meat grinder if it meant I could get more screen-time for Deb (and let's not even talk about s7 and Hannah McKay..). Then the series finale happened, and now I can't do a rerun without mourning her and wishing there was just more: more scenes, more moments, more Deb. It really doesn't matter what season or what ep; there are always plenty of times where all I do is wonder at where Deb is during the scene and how different the narrative would be if it was hers. She deserved a thousand times better than being forever overshadowed and eventually consumed by Dexter's greed.  
> So this is me giving (or, at least, attempting to give) her the narrative for s1, to try to disentangle her from Dexter's (and Brian Moser's) context. Hope you like it half as much as I enjoyed working with her.

 

_ _

_Fogged-Up Mirror  
_ _Setting: before “Dexter”_

* * *

You know, when I was... I don't know, 11 or 12 or something, I had a very specific image of myself, of who I wanted to be. Powerful. In control of everything. People would shit their pants when I walked into the room. People would want to do things for me, just to get on my good side. I would be some grand fucking poobah, a rockstar, and no one would ever step over me, or just... I don't know, just forget me.

I held onto that for a long time, somewhere not so deep down. I still do. And right now that grand fucking... whatever (Lieutenant? Captain? Deputy Effin Chief?) is staring back at me in that fogged-up mirror, judging the shit out of me. Nudity is the grand equalizer, and from right here where I'm standing outside my shower, it'd be impossible to distinguish between Chief Go Fuck Yourself Morgan and Brandy the cop cum whore.

But then I pop in my contacts, wander into the bedroom and select my outfit off the top of two different piles on the bed, smell check them as I step over to the dresser and look around. Cheap earrings? Check. Shitty, trashy rings? Check. Animal print chiffon bra? Check, but ew. Then back into the bathroom to schmear on extra dark liner and that awful fucking sparkly eye shadow, the fake fake lashes and the red red lipstick that just screams “Hey, wanna fuck me in the backseat of your station wagon for $43?”

As I stare into the mirror, already feeling the thong riding up my ass, I can't see that tough, Wall Street-esque bitch anymore. It's just me in there, looking small and... exposed. In more ways than one.

Almost two years I've spent in this shithole corner of the department. Somewhere along the way I must have pissed someone off, coz they pulled me from my patrol beat and stuck me on an endless rotation of street corners and whores and pencil-dick Johns. Any delusion I might have had about the fun of living undercover went out the window when it sunk in that I was isolated from my department and traveling farther and farther from the people I need to meet to get the fuck out of here and into Homicide.

And besides which, having to live like a prostitute, having to see myself like this five days a week doesn't do shit for my self-esteem.

I head into the living room, shove all the shit on the couch off it or just to the side, then plop on top, adjusting my undies with a thumb. Yesterday's crime scene is fresh in my mind, has been playing across the back of my eyelids since I saw it— all night, all this morning. I don't know the girl who died, and frankly I don't really know the details beyond what I heard over dispatch, which was what led me there to begin with, but the sight of it won't leave me alone. Her body, all chopped and sectioned and wrapped up in brown paper, skin pale as milk, all dead and bloodless and awful. I was off-duty yesterday, wearing actual clothes, and when I rolled up and flashed my badge they let me under the tape, and for like ten whole minutes I felt like a real cop, the cop I'm meant to be, standing over some dead girl wondering how the hell she ended up there. But then the fuckers from Homicide noticed me, asked what I was doing there, and I was kicked off the premises by Miami Metro's newest LT— Maria LaGuerta.

Goddamn, but she looked at me like I was a piece of dog shit.

I glance off the couch, spot Friday's cheek-riding shorts on the ground, stab them with two fingertips and pull them toward me. Inside one of the pockets is a cigarette, which I pull out and stick between my teeth. On the coffee table is a lighter, and I sit up just enough to light up, then fall back, exhaling gratefully.

I need to find an in. That case has primetime CNN mini-series written all over it. If I'd been first on scene or something maybe I could've found some way to get onto that team. Dazzled them with some fucking insight, I don't know, but it's annoying me that as I was standing there I had fuck all to say. I didn't notice... anything. She just looked dead, in some fucked up, ritualistic way. On the rare occasion anyone does notice me around the water cooler, on the rare occasion I even get to be in the office anywhere near the water cooler, I'm Harry's Daughter. I know they wonder where my upward momentum is, if I have a teaspoon's worth of instincts. Even though my father spent his whole career in the box, other cops talk about him like he was a hero, and by their estimations I fall far, far short of the Morgan Legacy. My brother's at least some hotshot forensics guy, but me, I'm just some chickenshit in Vice, and it hurts more than I want to admit even to myself when a fellow officer suggests I try climbing the ladder from my knees.

I blow smoke out hard, swallowing and glaring up at the ceiling, at the oscillating fan, the water damage in the corner.

And then there's that fucking dead girl again. IDed on-scene as a prostitute. Cut into a bunch of roughly equal-sized pieces: a jigsaw puzzle, not a person. It bothers me that the first thing I grasped when I saw her was the opportunity. She was just like the girls I spend half my time with, yet she could've been a dead goldfish for how little she registered with me.

How fucked up is that?

A muffled buzzing attracts my attention, and I glance away from the ceiling.

Phone. (Shit, what time is it?)

I search around the couch, the random clothes piled by my feet, then lean off to check the floor again, cigarette gripped between my teeth. Shifting a shirt aside, I uncover and grab the phone, then sit up to tap off some ash into an empty styrofoam cup. 

“Morgan,” I say, answering without checking the ID.

There's a brief, airless pause, then, “Hello, can I speak with Debra Morgan?”

I blow out smoke. “Speaking,” I already know what this is.

“Hello. My name is Henry and I'm with—”

“Fuck off.” I flip the phone shut, take another drag, set it on the couch beside me. Then I remember my initial question, dig for it again, holding the cancerstick in one hand as I lift the phone aloft with the other and stare at the little digital screen.

7:36.

I've got some time.

My gaze wanders to the TV as I let my hand fall. At least one of the local channels is bound to be running something on the dead prostitute, and for whatever reason I want to know what everyone else knows. Maybe just to continue the fantasy that that is going to be my day, rather than it being a bunch of gross, sweaty, disgusting fuckwads staring at my ass.

I start digging around for the remote.


	2. Listening to Traffic

_Listening to Traffic  
_ _Setting: before “Dexter”_

* * *

 “Hey, I mean it, thanks for your call. You don't know how much it means to hear a friendly voice on the phone.”

“Hey,” I stop and dig around for my keys, cradling the phone with my shoulder. “Listen to me, things will get better. And if you need anything, just call me. God knows I never fucking sleep.” I finally locate the keys half inside a pack of Morleys, and I pull them out and insert one of them into my door. “Or, hey, call my brother. I think he really likes you.”

“Yeah,” she exhales into the phone as my door pops open. “Yeah, I like him too. He was supposed to come over for dinner but he had to work late.”

“Yeah, he's always working late. Probably's blown me off at least a thousand fucking times to do 'paperwork,'” I shift the phone back into my hand, not sure if the air quotes made it into my voice— or if I even meant them. “Don't let up on him. He can be dense as fucking lead but he's a good guy.”

“I won't.”

“Good. I'll call you later. Say hi to Dex if he does decide to show up.”

“I will. Good night.”

“Night.” I click off, let my hand fall as I look at my door. Just through the crack I can see my pitch black apartment. After a second I open the door and flip on the lights, toss my purse onto the couch as I head for the fridge. After grabbing a water bottle I lock the door, then cross the living room and open the sliding door. The air is hot and thick, and it smells like fried fat. I smell way worse though.

Peeling off my sweaty gym shirt and tossing it in the general direction of a chair, I plop into the free space on my couch, gulping water. I drop my phone into my lap.

Rita Bennett.

That was a seriously fucked up night. Fucked up week, actually.

I was taken off hookers— temporarily, anyway —after some asshole John followed me around a corner as I was heading home. I'd seen him a few times leering around, but somehow I didn't notice him until he grabbed me from behind, wrenched me around and slammed me against the wall. In a second his hand was crushing my throat, the other making its way down my shirt. Sometimes I still think about that second of blind fucking terror, how everything I knew about... everything suddenly just evaporated, and how every microsecond of that moment seemed to fill every fiber of my being. His disgusting breath. His sweaty hands groping for skin, _my_ skin. My heart hammering in my ears as he crushed the breath from me. He was shirtless and sweaty and high out of his mind, telling me if I resisted he was going to kill me, and my gun was tucked in the small of my back, and I could feel it there as he pressed me against the wall, totally useless.  
And then somehow I got a hold of myself, spotted something shiny on his nipple. My fingers slid off his arm automatically, sought the loop. The next second he let me go, fell to his knees howling like a bitch. I kicked his chin up hard with my knee, and he dropped like a stone. Before pulling out my cuffs I gave him such a hard kick in the nuts I might've neutered him. Then I rolled him over and handcuffed him. Caught my breath. Called dispatch. It was only later I found out that they never actually found his nipple.

Three days of paid leave later, I was tossed a domestic dispute call. I'm still not really sure why. Maybe they were thinking of pulling me out of Vice, putting me back into general rotation, or maybe they were considering moving me to Sex Crimes, I don't know.

It sucked.

When I walked up to the stoop, the door was open, and the house was a mess: tables and chairs tipped over, broken glass, broken dishware, broken lamps. Blood. Screaming. Crying. It took me half a second to realize I was hearing children.

I called for back up as I went in with my gun drawn, followed the noises to the bedroom, where I found a tall guy with his back to me, high as a kite and raging, though I don't even remember what the fuck he was saying because my heart was beating so hard. He was holding a bat. Rita was cowering there, standing between him and her two kids, split lip, fucked up eye, fucked up jaw, fucked up shirt. When she saw me behind her husband's back, the look that flashed across her face crushed my heart to the bottom of my shoes. I don't ever want to see that kind of desperation on another person's face. Not ever.

If those kids hadn't been standing there, I might've fucking shot the bastard. Instead I told him to freeze. At first he didn't, but the sound of the hammer cocking seemed to pierce his druggy haze, and for the briefest of seconds we made eye contact before he dropped the bat and sank to his knees on my order. Violence was etched all over his eyes, his jaw, the veins throbbing in his neck. I didn't move to cuff him until I heard sirens approaching outside.

I stayed on Vice. I fucking hate Vice, but I can't volunteer to take those kinds of calls again if I don't have to. Back on patrol I saw a lot of women like Rita, a lot of fucked up, strung out men like Paul, but that night felt different. After it was over, Rita told me in the back of the ambulance that Paul would've killed her, that I'd saved her life, and the certainty with which she said that shook me to the core. I kept asking myself what would've happened if I'd gotten there ten minutes later.

Maybe that's why I keep in touch with her, why I eventually steered her toward my brother. I can never be the kind of friend she needs— I'm just not gentle enough —but maybe Dexter can help her, make her feel less sad, less alone.

I finish off the rest of the water, set it on the table, wander out onto the balcony. The air is slightly less heavy out here, feels more like actual air than warm jello. For a second I listen to traffic, just breathing, still feeling tired and gross from the gym.

I don't like the quiet, the emptiness. It gives me the creeps, like some sort of reverse claustrophobia. I just broke up with someone a couple days ago, and even though I'd been seeing him for all of five minutes, and even though he was awful in bed and had no personality and always smelled sort of like cheese, for some reason I kind of miss him. Is it awful to want him here just to fill the space? Is it awful that that was why I wanted him to begin with?

I head back inside, reach for my phone on impulse. I speed-dial the first person I think of: Dexter. He blew off Rita but maybe I can convince him to grab a beer with me.

But it rings and rings and rings. Dumps to voicemail.

For half a second I contemplate leaving a message. I open my mouth, but then blow out my breath. “Fuck it,” I say to no one, hitting the red button. I can drink alone.

As I get up to grab a beer, I find the remote and flip the TV on. It's been two weeks since the prostitute was chopped into pieces and left for the world to find. News on the case has slowed to nothing, from both the newscasters and the police grapevine. Interest has moved on. The reality is no one ever really gave a shit about the dead girl, just the freaky way she was displayed. And since we're apparently just treading water, there's nothing left to sensationalize.

I skim the channels for her anyway.

Seconds tick by. ( _nothing nothing nothing nothing anything but that no no nope fuck no_ )

I stop on a sports channel. College football. It keeps my attention for about 23 seconds before the smell of me becomes suddenly and completely overwhelming. Sniffing myself, I get up, abandoning my unopened beer on the table.

I leave a trail of clothes to my shower, toss my watch onto the bed as I wait for the water to warm up. Standing on the tile, looking in on the general disaster that is my bedroom, I tell myself that I'm going to clean all this shit up when I get out of the shower. That I might as well since I've got fuck all to do tonight. That this is getting ridiculous.

Then I test the water, find it acceptable, climb into the tub.

Thoughts run off with the water. I close my eyes, groaning.

Turn up the heat.

I don't know if I'll actually deal with it. Maybe later.

 


	3. Paperwork at the Communal Desk

 

 _Paperwork at the Communal Desk  
_ _Setting: before “Dexter”_  

* * *

It's 3:26 in the morning and the motion sensitive lights just went out for the eighth or twelfth time since I got here.

I exhale, look up, think about standing up and waving my arms around again, but don't. Look back at the screen.

Because it's late. Because I'm alone in the building. Because I'm tired.

Because these last two days couldn't possibly get more fun.

You know, unless you shoved a white hot steel beam through my ear and fucked me with it til sunrise.

Giving up on focusing, I push my chair back, throw my feet onto the desk. My boots clunk into a cup of paper clips and pens, a tray of forms. The stapler falls over and off the desk, hits the floor noisily.

But the lights don't come on.

I stare at the block of words I'm taking a break from producing, stare at the little blinking line. I'm halfway through report number four and a third of the way through five. I started bouncing back and forth at some point, I don't remember when. Time and a half I keep telling myself, but the rest of me is all too aware I've got to be back at that shithole motel as Brandi the pro by 10AM soft.

I've been going over the cover story since the staged arrest. Not that I really think anyone's going to question where I went or how I got back.

Ugh. The arrest. The bust.

My eyes are itchy. I reach for my purse, pull out a bottle of contact solution, blink some into my eyes.

Yesterday was the culmination of an enormous sting half the department's been in on for like half an eon. Human trafficking, prostitution, drugs. After knowing about their hidey-hole for years, we finally got someone far enough up the organization's asshole to find some concrete shit on the guys running the ring. With all the resources and the time and the sweat put into the case, almost everyone was sucked into the bust, including me. I was given the role of backdrop girl, surrounded by pervs I couldn't arrest and booze I couldn't drink. My task was to work crowd control if (and only _if_ ) the shit started to fly, but otherwise I was to remain undercover, playing the world's first and only teetotal whore.

I'm not sure whether I'm happy or not that the shit never flew. The arrests by the plainclothes went down smoothly and quickly, the second barrage of uniforms contained virtually everyone. Sure, it was utter chaos in the inside of the club, and between the screaming and the flashing lights and the pounding music I felt like my brain was going to liquidize in my skull and leak out through my eyes, but it was all kept under control. Once the high profile guys were filed out, the prostitutes were separated from the crowd and arrested— me right along with them.

I bury my knuckles into my forehead.

Even though the arrest was an act, the rage that flowed up my throat as I was zip tied and tossed in the back of a truck was real. From the way some of the officers looked at me, I know those fuckbuckets enjoyed it.

After spending the night in holding, I was “released.” Yeah, after a night of not sleeping in the thong, tiny skirt, and $5, partially translucent Target tee, I was dragged into the office for a debriefing that rapidly consumed the morning. By lunch I was finally able to go home, trade the loner clothes and my sweaty underwear for a shower and a nap and something fresh from my closet.

I got here around 10, have barely left this chair since. Beside the bust I had reports backing up.

Speaking of which.

I stretch awkwardly for the keyboard with my feet still propped on the desk, get back to my scene description. Sitting propped up against the monitor is my pocket notepad with my notes. It's times like this I miss my department-issued laptop.

You know, _almost._

And suddenly the lights flick on. Sounds of stomping feet in the hallway.

I swivel in my seat, see Joe Paradiso and Nick Grady-Got walking in. I glance above them at the wall clock. 3:47.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” I ask, not getting up, nor bothering to remove my shoes from the desk.

They both look at me. “Nice to see you too,” Nick says.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Joe echos my question as they both walk over.

“Paperwork.” I note they're both in plainclothes. I have no idea if they're on shift or not. “You two?”

“Same,” he sits on the desk opposite me while Nick plops into a wheely chair and rolls over to join the impromptu circle. “We found another one of those chopped up bodies.”

I feel my blood pressure spike. “Another girl?” I pull my legs off the desk and turn all the way around, throwing my keyboard off my lap as I go.

“Yeah,” Nick says. “We were setting up on a motel up in Fort Lauderdale. Rolled into the parking lot and found the body parts wrapped up on a fucking picnic bench. Who knows how long it was sitting there.”

“Fuck,” I murmur. “What motel?”

“The Copper Motel,” he leans down, adjusts the height on his swivel chair. The guy's like 6'9.

“Isn't that one of yours?” Joe asks.

“Yeah,” I stare at them both. “In the parking lot you said?”

“Yeah,” he pauses. “I've never seen anything more fucked up in my life.”

I was just working that motel less than a month ago. I know exactly what fucking bench he's talking about.

My pulse has picked up. Suddenly I feel awake again. “And you're sure it was like the other girl?”

“The boys from Homicide seemed to think so when they showed up.”

I can still see her perfectly, the first victim. It's been three months since I got myself onto that scene and I can't get it out of my mind: those clean, bloodless, butchered body parts. Just the memory makes my mouth go dry.

I wonder if my brother was there. I half feel like calling him, despite the fact that it's four in the morning on a Wednesday.

“What else did they say?” I ask.

Joe shrugs. Nick opens his mouth, “We were playing happenstance bystanders. When they started putting tape around the lot half the neighborhood showed up to watch.”

“Fucking rubbernecks,” I mutter. Not that I wouldn't have been doing the same.

“Even just playing witnesses we were still there like four hours,” Joe rubs his shoulder. “No wonder no one talks to us.”

“There's no way we were the first ones to find those body parts the way they were left there either,” Nick adds. “I've never seen the place so deserted. There was no one there.”

“Until patrol started pouring in.”

“Yeah, then suddenly there they all were.”

“They're going to be interviewing people for weeks.”

I nod, only partially listening to them. I've been to that motel so many times. If I closed my eyes I could practically be standing in that parking lot myself.

“I was glad to get out of there,” Nick continues. “Gave me the fucking creeps”

“Anyway,” Joe glances at his watch. “I'd like to get out of here before sunrise, so I'm going to start my report.” He slides off the desk. “Nice seeing you again, Deb. You know, in clothes,” he grins at me.

“Really?” Nick says. “I'm disappointed.”

I sneer at them, “Fuck off.”

Also grinning, Nick rolls away, all seven feet of him. I turn back to my computer as Joe shuffles behind his desk, readjust the keyboard. My gaze returns immediately to that blinking cursor, but I can't focus on the words. I'm still caught on it. I can perfectly visualize that shithole motel, the cracked wood on the top of that ancient, bolted down picnic bench, the perpetual trail of ants running along the sidewalk. I wonder who that girl was, if she was another prostitute. I wonder if I might've met her.

I wonder at the kind of sick impotent fuck it was that murdered her, what it'd be like to be the one to collar him.

Hearing mouse clicking behind me, I quietly clear my throat, force myself back to the report. The sooner I get this done and printed and filed and out of my life, the sooner I can get home and listen to the news.

 


	4. The Blue Room

_ _

_The Blue Room  
_ _Setting: before “Dexter”_

* * *

The Blue Room is one of those shitty fucking theme bars— you know, with enormous fake swordfish and tunas on the walls, plastic parrots and lobsters hanging from the ceiling, shark jaws, life rafts, and ironic nautical drinks, all of which kind of taste like over-sweetened shit. The whole place smells like stale beer and a memory of cigarettes from back when everyone and their mother was smoking. Just judging from the decor it was built in 1976 and hasn't changed much since, beyond trading the tube TVs for flat screens. But somehow that suits its primary clientele: old cops.

I never really got the appeal. Then again it's out of the way for me. Maybe ten minutes from Miami Metro, but at least forty from me, and this is hardly the only cop bar in Miami. But tonight I'm not here for me. I'm here for Dad. I've been told he was here at least a few times a week, every week, for like fifteen years. His picture's framed behind the bar, stacked shot glasses in front of his shiny, gold name plate. Every time I come in here everything's always exactly the same, and sometimes I can almost see Dad sitting right there beside me, even though he died long before I could've openly cracked a beer with him.

I check my watch.

Dexter's late again. For a guy's who's so fucking anal, he can be really fucking terrible about being on time.

I take a sip of bourbon, swish the liquid around the ice, which has mostly melted. I'm trying to wait. Trying.

He would've been 76 today. Retired. Maybe in the same house (Dexter and I never would've moved...). I wonder all the time how or if our relationship would've changed if he was still around, if me being a cop would've somehow brought us closer together, given us that one thing in common to finally tie us together. Would he have been disappointed in my appointment to Vice instead of Homicide? That I haven't made Detective yet? Would he have even liked that I became a cop? He was always trying to keep me out of his life, always trying to shield me from guns and corpses and crime scene photos and violence, but of course I came in contact with all that shit anyway....

I like to think that he would've been proud of me.

I stare at his picture, trying to find an answer in his smile. I still miss him. Mom's a much warmer, more distant memory, but she never lived to see me past sixth grade, and really she never knew me. Dad did.

At least, I think.

I swallow more bourbon, exhaling as the heat rolls up my nose and down my throat.

“Sorry, I know I'm late.”

I snap from my thoughts as something large and black briefly enters my field of vision, then disappears. Dexter's shoulder bag. I turn to look at its owner as he gestures at the barkeeper. “What she's having,” he says like it's no big deal, handing him his card.

“Dex,” I say, punching him in the shoulder. “What the fuck? I've been sitting here twenty minutes.”

“I know, sorry, got tied up.”

“Well, you should've fucking untied yourself.” I watch as the barkeep sets down a glass for him and fills it. Places the card on the wood.

He holds up his hands. “I'm sorry.” Gives me that awkward smile.

I feel the irritation drain away, despite myself. “Whatever. You're here at least.” I point at his glass. “Pick up your fucking drink.”

He obeys.

“To Dad,” I say, clinking, then toasting his picture.

“To Harry,” Dexter says.

We drink together.

Sometimes I wonder why he never calls him 'Dad.' He knew my father most of his life, doesn't remember his biological parents. I asked him once, but all he did was sort of stare off for a second and then go “I don't know.” I'm afraid to ask again, because I know I'll just get the same annoying non-reply.

I gesture at my drink, which is now empty, muttering, “Another.” Magically, more bourbon appears at the end of a silver spout.

“How's it going with Rita?” I ask after the barkeep wanders off to some other patron.

Dexter looks at me as he stuffs his wallet back into his pants. “Good. You know, her kids are great. I think she's adjusting to the whole Paul thing.”

His name tweaks some inner heartstring. “He still calling her?”

“Yeah, but she stopped picking up.”

“That's something at least.” I swivel in my seat to face him, setting my elbow on the bar. “How have you been? You know, it's been forever. I feel like we never get together anymore.”

“Well, you know, it's hard. Your hours. My hours.” He sips his drink. “But we're together now.”

“I just miss you, Dex.” I'm definitely a little buzzed. “I miss Dad. Miss my family. I mean, don't you?”

He pauses. “Yeah, of course.”

“So fucking pick up the phone sometime.” I hit him again.

He leans back. “Alright, okay, stop hitting me.”

I sniff-snort, feeling feelings rise up my throat. Shift my hair to one side of my neck. Wait to see if he's gonna ask me anything.

And eventually, “How're you?”

“Oh, you know, peachy,” the answer flows out. “Yesterday we made a few busts. My guy had a few ounces of coke in his pocket.”

“Oh, that's great.”

I just look at him. Clearly he didn't catch my tone.

“Not great?”

“No, it's...fine...” I say the last part into the glass as I take another sip. And it is _fine_ , I guess. This time last year I was imagining more would've changed by now. Promotion. Transfer. Serious boyfriend. Stop smoking. Something. A New Year's resolution made to my Dad's smiling face. But somehow nothing ever got around to changing. I wouldn't say I'm unhappy but...

I set down the glass. “I swear, Dex, this time next year I'll be sitting in Homicide, in one of those little cubicles that your office looks over. You'll be seeing me every fucking day.” I point at him. “And one day, I'll be running it, the whole fucking department.”

He finishes off his drink. “You know, when you say it like that, I believe you.”

I grin, “Fucking better.” A thought occurs. “You know, speaking of which, why haven't you gone anywhere? I swear you've been warming the same seat since you left med school.”

He gestures at his glass, glancing at the barkeep. “What can I say? I found what I like, I like what I do.”

“I know, but...” I adjust in my seat as the guy comes over. “It's a big world out there. In twelve years you haven't had one thought of moving onto something bigger? Better paid?”

He gives me a curious look, as if the thought really has never occurred to him. “Like what?”

“I don't know. Bet there's a lab somewhere you could be running. Or teaching.”

“Me?” he snorts. “A teacher?”

I laugh. “Okay, maybe not. But something else, I don't know.”

He shrugs. “I don't really want to leave Miami. There's an... endless amount of work to be done here.” He smiles to himself, lost in some private thought.

“Fine.” I lean on my hand. “Well, can't say I'm not glad you don't want to leave.”

“Really?”

My eyebrows pinch. “Well, duh. You're my brother. My family. Been through thick and fucking thin.” I take a drink. It's starting to feel a lot warmer, soft and thick and heady. Almost too warm for a summer night. “If you hadn't been around, after Dad I don't know where the fuck I'd be.”

“You would've been fine, Deb. You always underestimate yourself.”

I smile, “Well, so do you.”

A couple minutes pass where we say nothing. I'm still leaning on my hand, content to drift in the pleasant brown haze settling over my thoughts, looking at Dexter but not really looking at him. Just sort of remembering a lot of things all at once.

He was close to finishing out his bachelor's when Dad died, was still living in the house. I was a junior in high school and miserable about it. I'm pretty sure I hated everyone on the planet. And I remember the fucking funeral, the flag covered coffin, the sea of uniforms, everyone all made up— way too many clothes for a Miami fall. Mounted officers with their spotless horses, the then-Lieutenant (now Captain) Mathews and all the other cops I'd sometimes seen around the house all in blue, standing around, solemn and straight. Before they lowered the coffin Mathews took off the flag and slowly folded it into a triangle, and then he walked over and handed it to me. I still have it in a box somewhere, buried, coz I'm honestly too afraid to look at it, too afraid to get rid of it.

A sea of insipid condolences at the wake. Dexter and I, the sole survivors of the Morgan family, sitting around the house in dress clothes, working through the food that people kept dropping off (a thousand fucking casseroles). And then Mathews and a CPS officer showing up a few days later. Dexter was an adult, but I was a minor and they needed to figure out what to do with me. I've never seen Dexter angrier than when they suggested taking me away, maybe sending me up to Mom's sister. He was so shut down when Dad died; I don't think I ever saw him cry, and he was like a statue as he gave his eulogy. But that afternoon all the grief seemed to finally uncork. Stood between me and them, promised he'd always be here to take care of me, that home was with him, that I wasn't going anywhere. I don't think I've ever felt more wanted in my entire life than in that moment, as I sat silent on that old couch. He absolutely wouldn't abandon me, and he never did, even when it got hard. Carried me right on through high school, taught me to drive, helped me fill out college applications, helped me move into my dorm, supported me when I graduated with my piece of paper and said all I really wanted was to be a cop.

Through thick and thin, for fucking sure.

“You got quiet,” his voice interrupts the mental slideshow.

“I was just thinking,” I say. Suddenly remembering my drink, I reach for it and take another sip.

“About?” he prompts.

“Dad's funeral.”

“Oh.” He glances away.

I set my glass on the bar. “You?”

“Uh, work, mostly.”

I don't really want to try to express the weird jumble of feelings all roiling around. I'm not even sure what brought them on, maybe just it being Dad's birthday? But I want to say something. “Thanks for coming out tonight, Dex,” is what I come up with.

“Of course,” he says, flashing me another smile.

I clear my throat, swivel and place my other elbow on the bar. “But we're not even close to drunk enough.”

“Deb, I—”

“Nope,” I cut him off. “No, it's a Friday night. It's Dad's birthday. We're getting _shitfaced._ ”

When he says nothing I look at him. He already has his 'I want to call it a night face' on and it annoys me. Kind of a lot.

“For _Dad,_ ” I say, with emphasis. Then I point at his picture, to compound my point.

After a moment of searching my face for an out that I'm not going to give him, he sighs and slumps in surrender. “Okay, alright.”

I grin, “Fuckin' A.” I raise my glass and clink his half full one, then look up to see that the barkeep is talking to a group of guys I'm pretty sure are cops. One of them looks like Mike from Narcotics maybe, but from this angle it's hard to tell.

I drink what's left, then catch Dexter's eye. “By the way, got room on your couch for me tonight? Don't want to pay for the cab to get back to my place.”

He sips his drink. “And I'm guessing you'll want a ride back tomorrow too?”

I roll the ice around, smiling at him. “It's almost like you know me.”

“Yeah,” he exhales softly, taking another sip. But he's smiling.

“So that's a yes?”

“It's a yes.”

“Awesome,” I bump his shoulder with mine. He makes a gesture to stop his drink from spilling. “Come on, hurry up and finish that. When he comes back next round's on me. And then you're going to feed me some stories from Homicide. You always get the weird ones.”

His eyes close slightly in thought, and he nods. “Yeah, I think you'll like the one I got last week.”

I notice the bartender shift away from his conversation, and I gesture him over, then slide my glass away from me.

“Finish that,” I say again. “And start from the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you care about my logic/fanwanking behind this whole “Dexter became Deb's guardian after Harry's death” thing and me changing around her “Mom died when I was 16,” feel free to drop a PM or something. The gist of my logic is that if Harry died when Dexter was 21, and Deb was necessarily younger than him, then he must've become her guardian. I'm not sure if this was ever intended canonically but it really affects my head-canon and recontextualizes a lot of things for me (Dexter's whole “never split up” philosophy in 5x02; Deb's less than platonic feelings for him; the fact that whenever Deb felt unstable she always ended up on Dexter's couch— because he is “home” / “safe” to her). Hopefully you're willing to roll with me.


	5. Sweat and Mechanic

_ _

_Sweat and Mechanic  
_ _Setting: before “Dexter”_

* * *

I guess this was inevitable. Finally had to bite the bullet, take it in. The only question now is how long it's gonna take, and if they're gonna ask me to keep it here overnight.

I light up, leaning against a beam. The sun's coming down especially hard today. Hurts to look outside, even through the sunglasses. Not a cloud in sight. Sure half the fucking state is out on the beach right now, soaking in their Vitamin D, laying on towels on the hot sand, watching their kids play in the ocean. Perfect. Idyllic. Meanwhile, I've got no fucking plans for my weekend except a six pack of beer and the gym, and right now I'm just standing outside an auto shop waiting for an estimate, hot as a fuck under a wool blanket (and just as sweaty).

Earlier I left to grab some sort of beef rice bowl at a food truck I passed five blocks from here, and I came back after eating it. Ten minutes have passed since then. The mechanic told me they'd probably need another twenty before they could tell me the problem. I think the most annoying thing about this isn't the waiting around so much as the fact that I have the time to wait around. This isn't cutting into my weekend at all.

I blow out a long, slow plume, tap off some ash. As I rejoin the cigarette with my lips, I hear footsteps coming in my direction, and I turn against the beam to see one of the mechanics walk out of the garage. He's feeling around his pocket for something. I watch as he produces a cigarette. “Need a light?” I ask as he sticks it in his mouth.

He grins and takes it out. “Please,” he says, walking to me.

I stick mine between my teeth and reach into my purse, smiling back. As I dig around I take a second to glance him over: sweaty shirt sticking to him in all the right places; in-shape but not exactly beefcake-y; five o'clock shadow; decent hair-cut; blueish eyes; at least six foot; no visible tattoos; kind of goofy looking but in a harmless, non-repulsive way.

So far so okay.

Finding my lighter, I gesture him a little closer, then spark the flame to light. I can smell him as he leans in: sweat but also some sort of aftershave. Still okay (and I'm sure he can smell me). I tilt the flame against his cigarette, flick it off when it blooms to life. He exhales away from me, then smiles at me again. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He smokes: already something we have in common. “Any news on my car?”

He shrugs. “Your water pump's shot.”

I take a drag. “What's that mean for me?” Exhale.

Another shrug. “You'll have to ask Gary, but we can probably have your car back to you before closing. Only takes about an hour but we have a few cars before yours.”

Great. “What's it gonna run me?”

“Like... One eighty, maybe?” He blows out smoke. “How long did you wait to bring it in? We could smell the coolant when we turned your engine over.”

“Awhile,” I adjust my footing and tuck some hair behind an ear. “To be honest, I just didn't want to deal with it.”

“Yeah, I can get that.” He squints at me in the sunlight. “I'm Sean, by the way.” Another Sean. He sticks out a hand. “Sean Yates.”

I take it. Firm, but no squeezing. Good sign. Maybe I'll have better luck with this one. “Debra Morgan,” I say. “Just Deb.”

“Deb,” he repeats. “Okay.” He's still smiling at me. I know he's done his own visual autopsy on me, and part of me wonders what he's noticed. “You from around here?”

“Yup,” I suck off the last bit of the cigarette, then drop the butt, squish it with a heel. “Miami born and raised.”

“I'm from Daytona,” he says. “Went to college here and just sort of stayed.”

“Yeah, a lot of people do.” No ring. No ugly jewelry.

“Well, you know what I do, Deb. What about you?”

There I hesitate. Sometimes it weird guys out. But, I mean, fuck him if he cares. “I'm a cop,” I say.

“A cop?” he repeats, brows arching. Smoke billows from his nose, then out in a breath. “Wow. That's, well...” he laughs.

Fuck him for leading me to ask, “What?”

“Sexy,” he says.

I grin, genuinely, feeling something slide just below my stomach. “Yeah?”

He's mirroring my grin, “Yeah.”

I like the feeling. “So you have any plans for dinner tonight, Sean?” I ask.

“I don't know, do I?”

Fuck it, why not? “Yes,” I say. “With me. Only...” I pause and lean in, lower my tone, “You're not married, are you?”

He twiddles his left fingers at me. “Nope.”

“Great. Can I pick you up with my car?”

“Definitely.” Still grinning at me, he glances behind himself, then points toward the door. “I'll go ask how close we are to your estimate. Hang here a sec?”

“Sure,” I get off the beam as he drops and grinds his own cigarette, then walk away. My gaze casually roves down his back as he goes.

Definitely okay...

I pull out my phone, wandering away from the shop. Looks like I have several hours to kill now, and I need a ride. After scrolling through a mental list of contacts, I settle on Tim Walsh, one of my old partners from patrol I still occasionally catch a drink with. Unless something's changed he's still on beat, and he's on duty today. I wouldn't necessarily mind riding around for a few hours. Hell, sometimes I sort of miss that— wearing the uniform instead of the hooker suit, sitting in a car with A/C and the radio on instead of baking on street corners in heels. And it'd be good to catch up with him.

I decide to raise him through dispatch. When he answers he sounds happy enough to hear from me, so I explain my situation. Within a minute I have a ride and plans to fill my evening.

And as for tonight...

I slip my phone into my purse, turn to look back at the garage.

Sean seems nice enough. Attractive. Employed. A fixer of things. He doesn't smell like cheese. I could do worse. And he's okay with the cop angle, at least for now. He could be the rain on my drought.

Maybe.

As I think this he appears in the doorway. He gestures me over, so I walk to him.

“You're all set,” he says, smiling at me (and I return it, reflexively). “Just have some stuff for you to fill out and then you're good to go. Need a cab?”

“No, I got a ride.”

“Great,” he spreads his arm out, does a slight bow. “After you.”

Grinning, I nod, then head inside.

 


	6. Body Parts in a Swimming Pool

_ _

_Body Parts in a Swimming Pool  
_ _Setting: “Dexter”_

* * *

Holy mother of the baby fucking Jesus.

I freeze, feel my mouth fall open. I'm not entirely sure if the oath left my mouth or stayed inside, and I don't really care, but since the uniform who found the body isn't looking at me it probably didn't.

“Fuck balls,” I say, this time definitely aloud.

The other cop glances at me, but I ignore him, stepping forward to look over the edge.

It's just there, right there, in the deepest end of a pool I'm pretty sure hasn't seen water since 1984. Yesterday it was filled with beer bottles and cigarette butts and wrappers and dirt and fucking dead palm fronds, just years and years of shit, but today it's all cleaned up, good as fucking new, replaced by a long, plastic-covered table.

_And motherfucking body parts._

“Christ, are you fucking seeing this?” My heart is racing.

The cop (he intro'd himself as Carlos Sandoval) glances at me again, then just sort of nods and goes, “Yeah.”

Either he doesn't realize what we're seeing or he doesn't care. But, Jesus, I couldn't be more aware of it if you scrawled “First on scene” onto a mallet and fucked me with it.

Of all the fucking motels in all of fucking Miami...

_He chose my motherfucking shitheap of a motel._

I glance around the powder-blue plaster walls, notice another brown-wrapped package on the shallow end, away from the table. It looks like a head.

I try to get a handle on myself. Every nerve in my body is screaming to jump down into that pool and take a closer look, but I keep myself firmly planted. If I make that kind of stupid fuck-up I'll have no chance at all of getting myself onto this team. But I'm here.

I try to stare at everything at once, but I don't know what there is to see. I don't know how much time I have left to find something.

I take a breath.

I'd noticed Carlos as I was walking up to start my day. For the last week or so I've been working this motel and the street from a ground floor motel room. In the mornings I've been starting by grabbing something from the vending machine, which was exactly what I was going to do when Carlos stopped me as I tried to pass him. He told me what was going on when I flashed my badge from my purse, said he'd already called Homicide.

It never even occurred to me before just a few seconds ago to expect to find this— another dead girl, cut up into a bunch of pieces. Same guy. Even though I barely saw the first victim, I'll never forget how she was wrapped up in the brown paper, and that wasn't a detail that was ever released to the press.

I walk around the pool, just staring. I don't know what the fuck to look for. Before all I could do was lament that I didn't have the time to come up with any insights. Now I have the time.

_Think, motherfuck._

But all I can seem to see is how pale and dead and bloodless she is. And her head all wrapped up and tossed off to the side, like garbage. Her body is the thing this fuck wants us to see. Her face, her identity, none of that matters. Probably another hooker just out of her twenties. Had the time to get her shit in order, to maybe find a way out. _Had._

On my second circuit around, I stop, right where I started.

It's all so neat and clean, a body on plastic, right in the center of a pay by the hour motel, in a pool. It's almost like some contemporary art piece I don't have the patience or the desire to understand, the message obfuscated by a bunch of symbolic bullshit that only makes sense to the artist. I wonder what Dexter would see if he was the one standing here instead of me, but I can't think of anything. He says he can build a story in reverse, that the blood is like the pages of a book and he just has to flip them backwards, but I don't see anything.

I stare at the thing I'm assuming is the head.

What if she's someone I know? One of the girls I've been sharing street corners with?

“Hey, who the fuck are you?”

I jump. My gaze snaps up, and I turn left to see some creepy ass bald Asian guy walking up to me with a Canon strapped around his neck. He looks really familiar, but my brain just isn't working. Behind him I can see lots of cars pulling up and stopping, and I realize there are a lot more uniforms. I don't see Carlos anywhere.

“This is an active crime scene,” he says. He enters within punching distance. ( _Wait, I remember him now._ ) “But if this is what you're into, I—” he stops. “Woah.” He squints his eyes, leans toward me. “Debra Morgan?”

“Fuck off and die, Masuka,” I say, grimacing at him.

I can feel his gaze rake up and down my bare midriff, catching on the bra string, one of the loops of that fucking uncomfortable thong.

“Jeez, what kind of messed up shit are you into?” he says. “Not that I mind...”

“I'm fucking Vice, you perverted fuck. Undercover.”

“I have something else for you to get un—”

“Oh, Officer Morgan, right?” a voice interrupts.

My gaze slips past Dexter's gross lab mate and hits on easily one of my least favorite people on the planet.

Fuck you, you know my name, you miserable bitch.

I bite my tongue. Physically. A sudden flood of nervousness shoots from my stomach, up my core and down my legs. This is my chance.

“What're you doing here, Officer?” Maria LaGuerta asks. Behind her, Detective Angel Batista tosses me a wave. We've met a few times, around the station where Dexter works.

“I've been working this motel, Lieutenant,” I say, hoping that neither my hatred of her nor my nervousness over the whole situation is obvious in my voice. “I was first on scene with Officer Sandoval.”

“Oh,” she nods. “Well, we can take it from here. Don't want to keep you from your Johns.”

She begins to walk away, along with the others. Fuck. ( _fucking fuckmother cock shit_ )

“Wait,” the word pops out.

They stop.

“Wait, I can... I was here yesterday. I might be able to help you.”

LaGuerta looks at me like I'm a really dead pigeon she found on her doorstep. “Did you see anything?”

I shift, “Well, no, but, I—”

“Then goodbye, Officer.”

“Wait,” I move in front of them. “I...” Desperately, I just talk, “He cleaned the pool.”

She stops. Angel's eying me curiously. I don't even want to follow where Masuka's looking. “Excuse me?”

“The killer,” I point at where the body is. “He cleaned the pool. Yesterday this thing was a total mess, just filled with shit, but he cleaned it up, made it all nice and neat and tidy so that when the morning rolled around everyone would be able to see what he did.”

“That's... interesting, Officer.”

Fuck her, fuck me, she doesn't care at all.

“There aren't any cameras here,” I continue. “And if anyone did see anything they're not really gonna be the type to talk to cops.”

She pauses for a moment, then, “Tell you what,” she says. “When we need your expertise, we'll be sure to give you a call. Meanwhile, you don't work for my department, so I would appreciate it if you left the homicide to me and stick with your whores, okay, Officer?”

And with that she walks away, taking any possible hope I had with her.

“Nice seeing you, Deb,” Angel says, dipping his hat to me before following.

“Harsh,” Masuka says. “Well, if you want to—”

“Fuck off,” I say, turning on my heel and walking away.

_Fuck._

I don't know if I want to hit someone or cry or shoot myself or shoot LaGuerta or all of the above. First on scene on a case that's only going to keep growing. Third murder means it's a fucking serial killer. If I got on this I'd definitely be able to make the leap to Homicide.

Motherfuck I can feel this slipping through my fingers.

And suddenly I'm at the door to my motel room ( _Brandy's motel room_ ). Grabbing the key from my purse, I unlock it, then slip inside, slam it shut.

“Fuck,” I say aloud.

A wave of emotions hits me, a mix of desperation and nerves and pure, unadulterated frustration. Dropping my purse onto the TV armoire, I dig around for my cigarettes. The relief from the hit is temporary, gone in a second, but just the act of it cools me off a little, the breathing. And then, an idea.

Maybe it's not over yet.

I locate my cell in my bag, then hit speed dial. It rings and rings.

“Fuck, Dexter,” I mutter. “For once in your life, pick up.”

But he doesn't. The answering machine does.

“Dexter, are you there?” I ask, then wait. When there's nothing, I exhale smoke, “Okay, Dex, please, as soon as you get in, uh... I'm at a crime scene by the shithole, the Seven Seas Motel, and I need you here. Okay? Dex? Please. Pretty fucking please with cheese on top.”

I end it, toss the phone onto my purse. Take a long pull.

Even if I don't have any fucking ideas, maybe my brother will.

 


	7. Taking a Shot

_ _

_Taking a Shot  
_ _Setting: “Dexter”_

* * *

I consciously lift my chin as I step out of the elevator, trying very hard to stop my fingers from quivering. A hard mix of nerves and excitement is pounding through my veins, blinding me to everything but my Mission. Normal me would never have walked through the central precinct dressed like a five minute fuck, but I'm banking on Dexter's advice, and I swear to god in this moment I've never wanted anything more in my entire life.

I freeze when I'm almost abreast with the office, suddenly paralyzed. It's true, Mathews is my best bet, to get onto this case and to get into Homicide. I've never gone to him before to ask for a favor because I was never sure how he'd respond to me wanting one (and I still don't), but at this point I'm out of ideas.

_Confidence. I can do this._

I take another step forward, then feel myself falter as I look through the glass.

_Satan fuck me with a pitchfork, LaGuerta._

But before I can decide whether or not to retreat, Mathews' gaze flicks from the uber bitch and lands on me. His brows rise, and he stands. “Debra,” he says, gesturing me forward. At the sound of my name, LaGuerta turns to look at me, her own eyebrows plummeting.

“Captain,” I say, smiling awkwardly as I go around the glass and step into his office. “Lieutenant.”

Now that I'm actually standing here in my Brandy outfit, and he's actually looking at me in his suit and tie, I've never felt more self-conscious in my life, not even when that gangly little fuck Brad McKenzie came to pick me up for prom at my brother's old apartment and that weird flower wreath thing was too big for my wrist and it didn't really match my dress and he asked if I was alone and I said yes because Dexter was out doing research or something...

Swallowing, I force myself back into the moment. LaGuerta's an added obstacle I so didn't fucking need but maybe in the long run it's better she's here. “How are you, sir?”

“I'm great, Debra,” he says. “How're you? Please, take a seat.”

“Um, I'm good— I'd prefer to stand, sir, if that's okay?” LaGuerta's standing. Fuck me if I'll let her be taller than me.

“Of course,” he walks around his desk and leans on the edge. “Maria, this is Debra Morgan. She's Dexter Morgan's sister. Works for Vice.”

“We've met,” LaGuerta says, flashing me one of her completely fake smiles. It occurs to me that she's probably figured out exactly what I'm doing here.

“So to what do I owe this unexpected visit?” He's not smiling, but then again he's not much of a smiler. Looking at him fills me with a lot of strange, fragmented feelings, a lot of memories. He's the most tangible link to Dad besides Dexter, and somehow that gives me the courage to speak.

“I,” I take a breath, “I would like to request to, uh...” I can feel LaGuerta's eyes boring through my head. Clenching my molars together, I just let it go, “Sir, I want to be put on the investigation of the homicide at the Seven Seas Motel. I think my experience in Vice could be of use, especially since I've been working that particular motel for a little over a week now.”

“Really?” he says.

“Yes, sir,” I say. “I really think I could help.”

“Interesting,” he leans back.

“Sir,” LaGuerta speaks up, “all due respect, but she's Vice. She's not trained to work homicides.”

He glances at her. “She went to the Academy just like everyone else. Besides, Homicide's in this girl's bones. Her father was a great friend of mine.” He tosses me a small smile, and I feel the bottom drop out of my stomach as something like hope flows hard and fast into it.

“Sir—” she starts.

He cuts through her, “Besides, I think she's right. We haven't been able to get anyone to talk to us at the last two crime scenes. Now that this has officially upgraded to a serial killing we need to work any lead we can find, and her experience undercover may be an asset.”

He stands up.

“I'll grant you a temporary assignment to work this,” he says, offering me his hand and a smile.

For at least 48 microseconds everything within me freezes, unable to even process what he just said. Then it all hits me at once. “Oh my god,” I say, taking it. “I mean, thank you so much, sir. I promise I won't let you down.”

“I don't doubt it,” he glances at LaGuerta.

Apparently catching his drift, the LT holds out her hand. “Welcome to the team,” she says. Her voice is as pained as her smile.

The clear unhappiness on her face fills me with an indescribable amount of pleasure, since barely an hour ago she was brushing me off like a gnat. We shake for about a second before she lets go, then not-so-subtly wipes her hand on her pencil skirt. For the hundredth time I wonder what her problem with me is.

“Well, Debra,” Matthews retakes my attention, “as happy as I am to see you, I'm afraid the Lieutenant and I have to finish up what we were doing. But feel free to come back another time.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Really.”

Grinning, I step from the office. LaGuerta follows me, and for a second I think she's going to come into the hall with me, but then she shuts the door on my back. I glance at Matthews as he waves at me through the glass, and I return it, then quickly make my way away.

“Fuckin A,” I hiss.

I'm on the case. I finally got my shot.

I catch my reflection on a pane of glass as I pass, and another “fuck” slips out. No more fucking sex suit. There was a time when I was glad to not have to be wearing the uniform, but now I'm looking forward to it. Starting today I'll get to work in blue, in an actual precinct, not a motel room or a set-up in a converted pesticide van.

And LaGuerta had to fucking shake my hand...

I poke the elevator button, bark a laugh.

Matthews may've said temporary assignment, but I'm not planning to return to Vice. I'll find something to make this transfer permanent, even if I have to chug a thousand Red Bulls and pore over every case file a hundred thousand times to do it. No fucking way am I going to let this get away from me.

When the doors open I practically skip into the elevator. Luckily no one else is inside. I stab the '1'

“Fuck yes,” I say loudly when the doors close.

I get to go home and change. Rub off all the cake on my face, the glitter, the sparkly eye shadow; peel off the fake lashes; can burn these earrings and the bathing suit and _fuck_ I get to take off these heels.

Today is the first fucking day of the rest of my life.


	8. The Morgue

_ _

_The Morgue  
_ _Setting: “Dexter”_

* * *

 Jesus a lot happened today. This morning doesn't even feel connected to this moment, like it might've been two or three days ago, or like I accidentally stepped into someone else's life. If I wasn't so hyper-aware of every second that's passed since I left Matthews' office, I'd be asking myself how the fuck I even ended up standing here in the morgue on a Friday night just after having spent my evening at the second crime scene of the day. This morning all I was prepared to be was Brandy the Hooker; now suddenly I'm Officer Morgan again. The change was so abrupt I feel like I have whiplash.

I take a breath, kind of craving a cigarette or a beer. Or like... ten beers.

It smells really, truly... off in here, Like death and antiseptic and something vaguely Lemon Fresh, and since we're all sweaty from a night every bit as hot and muggy as the day, it also smells like at least three different scented deodorants and cologne and sweaty armpits. The air unit hums and rumbles in the background, overhead lighting reflects off a lot of white and a lot of metal; ugly grey tile slopes gently down to the drain in the center of the room.

_Where all the blood and fluids and fucking maggots go when they hose the place down._

I'm the only female in a room of five, and the only officer. While the coroner was arranging the body parts all the guys kept glancing at me, as if expecting me to toss it, or to run, or fuck, I don't know, cry. But as gross as it all was to watch in living color, it surprises me how little any of it registered. I just... stood here, watching as the coroner unwrapped her body parts, weighed and measured them, laid them out, and cut her open. The only thing I reacted to was when he pulled out her guts and cut them open— but, then again, everyone did, because he was literally exposing us to the shit that had been sitting inside a corpse and I'm honestly not sure anything has ever smelled worse and the sound as he squeezed out the contents, like pushing fucking sausages out of a wrapper... (I mean, why the fuck do we care what she ate?)

But then I looked back again. Who knows, maybe I just saw too many of Dad's pictures when he left them lying around for me to find (or to look for, in my endless attempt to find some common ground for us to bond over), too much exposure between what I saw on patrol and what I've seen in Dexter's computer gallery. And even now I'm still staring down at her— and really the only thing that bothers me is that she doesn't have her head. This psycho fuck just tossed the last girl's head aside, but this one... why did he take it? To fuck our chances of an ID? Or because it was somehow amusing? Why the fuck is he doing any of this, and why did he leave the cops two bodies in a single day, after the last two were killed over the span of five months?

And what happened to her? I watched the coroner perform a rape kit and he found spermicide but no sign of rape. So, what, he hired this girl, took her somewhere, they fucked, and then she was murdered, drained of blood, chopped up into pieces, and left outside a fucking club? Were these two girls killed at the same time? Did one of them watch the other die, knowing what was about to happen to—?

“How you holding up?”

I twitch slightly. “What?” I say, looking right.

Batista is standing there, looking at me. “It's okay to be upset.”

What, is he looking for a sign of weakness? “I'm just fucking fine, thanks,” I say.

“Yeah, I can see that.” He smiles, “I gotta say, most of the rookies, their first time in here, they usually get a little woozy.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not a fucking rookie,” I say. “I've been on the job five years.”

“Ooh,” he says, holding up his hands. That was the wrong thing to say. This guy was a uniform when Dad was alive. Next to him I'm in diapers.

“I'm sorry,” I backpedal. “Been a long day.”

“Yeah, I, uh, heard some of the guys,” he looks at me apologetically. “You know they don't mean it. It's just hazing.”

“You mean the part where I'm fucking Matthews to be standing here, or the part where I should offer to fuck the potential witnesses until one of them gives us something?”

He shifts. “All that.”

“Yeah...” I trail off into a sigh, craving a smoke again. Ramos, the other detective here, stepped out for one, but I didn't join him because of what I'd overhead him saying before. It's not that I can't handle it, but I think it's only confirming my fear that even when I do move out of Vice it'll still be following me forever, that I'll still look like a joke to all the Real Cops in their suits.

I glance at Lloyd, the coroner. If he heard our exchange then he must not care about it, because he's still sitting there at the desk, prepping his slide, not looking at anything but his little glass disc. I don't know if what he's doing is standard procedure, but part of me thinks he may've noticed the same thing I did— that there was something strange about this latest vic's body beyond the flayed hip (beyond... everything).

When I first got on scene I knelt down right beside her because I noticed she was... steaming. It was the weirdest fucking thing. And when I held my hand over her, I could feel the cold coming off her, like I was putting my hand over a block of ice. I didn't mention it to anyone, just went off to canvas when somebody noticed me and asked me to do it, but the whole autopsy I was wondering if the coroner was going to notice something too, and I think he might have.

I watch as he sticks the slide in his scope, flips on the light. He sniffs before pressing his face into the goggles, then starts messing with the dials. Memories of high school bio intrude— I remember how disappointed Dexter was when I finally told him how boring I thought it was.

“Cell crystallization,” he mutters, more to himself than anything.

“What?” I say, forgetting I'm supposed to just be observing.

He ignores me, just keeps fiddling his dials.

I glance at Angel, who is looking at me again.

“I'm gonna catch a smoke,” I say. “Be back in a minute.”

“Actually,” he says, and I stop, “we're pretty much good to go here.” He looks at the coroner, “Lloyd, you'll send me the report?”

“Mm hm,” he says.

“Great,” I say. “Well, then, I guess I'll see you Monday.”

I make to move past him, but Angel follows me. “Hey,” he says as we step out of the morgue and into the long, white, generic hallway, “Wanna catch a drink?”

I glance at him, brows furrowing.

“Not like that. I'm married, happily. But your brother mentioned how much you want this transfer, and call me crazy but I think you may have it in you.”

At that, I stop. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he smiles.

“What makes you think that?”

He shrugs, “I don't know, it's just a feeling. I heard about your conversation with Captain Matthews. Not many officers I know would go up against a lieutenant. You've got balls, Morgan.”

I grin, “It did feel pretty fucking good.”

“And not many officers I know would volunteer to work a crime scene and watch an autopsy on their own time on their first day. If you do make the leap, I wanna make sure you know that not everyone in this department is an asshole.”

I stare at him for a second, grinning, but also a little stunned. All day I've been treated like a pimple that suddenly erupted from the department's ass, and it surprises me that Angel wants to give me an in.

“Well, sure, I— thanks,” I say.

He sort of salutes me with his hat, then we start walking down the hall again. We turn the corner into the main lobby area just as Ramos comes in. “Finished?” he says.

“Yeah,” Angel replies. “We're getting a drink. Interested?”

He glances at me, obviously have caught the 'we.' “Sure, if you're buying,” he says.

He presses a hand to his chest. “First round's on me.”

“Well, then let's get the fuck outta here,” I say as Ramos reopens the door.

The three of us walk out together— me and two homicide detectives I barely know, possibly (hopefully) future coworkers. As I light up on the way back to my car, I wonder if Angel really meant what he said about me having it in me, and if he's right.

I dig out my keys and hit 'unlock.' Blow a cloud of smoke into the muggy air.

Fuck I hope so.


	9. From Theory to Ice Truck

_ _

_From Theory to Ice Truck  
_ _Setting: “Dexter”_

* * *

 Groaning, I lean back, roll my shoulders and my back. I'm not entirely sure how long I've been hunched over these reports, but it's been awhile.

I let myself fall against the couch, bring up a knee and throw an arm over it, then slide forward until I can put my head onto the seat. Close my eyes.

This is my third day in Homicide. Fifth, I guess, if you count the weekend, but I didn't go in over the weekend, just took a long run in the heat and did some laundry and threw back some beers with my (hopefully soon-to-be ex) coworkers in Vice, swapped some stories. I've become slightly more interesting to the guys in my department now that I might be leaving.

Meanwhile all weekend I was turning over what Dexter said about the whole refrigerated truck thing. I'm not really sure why no one has come up with a theory like this yet— from these reports everyone knew all the prior vics had been frozen in liquid nitrogen, and in Miami he couldn't exactly have thrown their body parts in the backseat of his car if he'd been planning to set up a neat, clean display somewhere. They'd've probably thawed by then, fucked up his car (and there's no way this guy isn't an anal fucking Annie).

And I ran through all that shit a thousand times— in the shower, in the gym, in bed, on the toilet —but when it came time yesterday to present the theory to everyone in the meeting room, I just... I couldn't keep it cool, and no one in there gave a shit about what I had to say. And fucking LaGuerta. ( _“Oh, Officer Morgan, I didn't recognize you with your clothes on.”_ ) God fuck it to hell, she just sent me right back out to spend the day trolling for a witness who doesn't exist, just to keep me busy long enough for her to tell Matthews that I'm useless and to ship me back to Vice.

It was a miracle she agreed to even let me make copies of these reports to take home with me tonight. Now I just wish I could fucking see something to help me, get some insight, maybe something new to strengthen this whole refrigerated vehicle thing. She wouldn't go for letting me check surveillance around the crime scenes for it, but maybe if I can find something in these reports then someone in there will take me seriously.

Because I can feel the noose tightening. LaGuerta wants me out, and Batista's the only one who's been nice to me. If I make a fool of myself again like I did yesterday, I'll be back out there on the street in my bathing suit and my hooker heels by the end of the week, and LaGuerta will make damn sure I never have another opportunity to get into this department.

Fuck.

Opening my eyes, I reach for and drain the last of my second beer.

And over the weekend I'd had so much hope, convinced myself that this theory of Dexter's would break the case wide open, that I'd be the hero, that I'd get the transfer and a desk in the pen...

Setting the bottle down, I push to my feet and head to the fridge. I need another.

As I open the door, I hear something buzzing, turn to see my phone vibrating on the counter. Hm. Sean maybe? He spent the night Saturday; maybe he wants another rendez-vous. Can't say that would suck...

I grab a beer and shut the door with my foot as I walk to the counter, pick up the phone.

Not Sean. Dexter.

“What's up, brother?” I ask, cradling the phone with my shoulder as I look around for the bottle opener. (Where the fuck did it go?)

“We were right,” he says, as if continuing a conversation we'd just been having.

( _There._ ) I walk to my coffee table. “About what?”

“I found the truck.”

I stop, grab the phone and reach to set the beer on the counter. “What?”

“I found the truck,” he repeats.

He couldn't possibly mean... “Don't you fucking fuck with me, Dexter. What do you mean you found the truck?”

“I mean, I found it, Deb. The truck he's been keeping their body parts in. It's an ice truck.”

“Jesus fuck me with a blowtorch.” I can feel my heart pick up. “Okay, where the fuck are you?”

“I'm on the Old Port Bridge.”

I start looking for my keys. “Okay, and where the fuck is the truck?”

“It's gone.”

I stop again. “Dexter, if this is you fucking with me, I'm—”

“I'm serious. I... I was out driving, and I noticed an ice truck. I thought it was weird for one to be driving around at this time of night, so I followed it. He drove to this bridge, then turned around and threw a head at my windshield.”

I can't actually process what he just said. “You followed— Jesus, Dexter, are you okay? A fucking a head? Like a real head?” A thought occurs. “Oh my god, that fucking headless chick...”

“I'm fine.”

Yeah, he sounds like he's reading off the weather report. “Did you see the guy?” I ask.

“No, he had his brights on.”

“A plate?”

“No, it all happened pretty fast. It's kind of a blur.”

“Fuck, of course.” I run my fingers through my hair, blow out a breath. “This is fucking huge, Dexter. I can't believe you found the truck. I mean, Jesus... Have you called it in?”

“No, you were the first one I called.”

“Call it in. I'll be there as soon as I can. Text me where you are while I find my fucking shoes.”

“Okay.”

He clicks off.

I pull away my phone, and for a few seconds I just stare at it, running through the conversation we just had. If Dexter had a sense of humor I'd be sure he's fucking with me. Saturday this was an off the cuff theory, and now three days later it's a fact: our killer's roaming around in a fucking meat-mobile. It seems like it's almost too good to be true.

Dexter's text with the location breaks me from my freeze. I head for the couch and grab my shoes, which are lying where I'd kicked them off. Quickly stuff my feet into them. Grab a random shirt off a chair back and slip it on over my tank.

Keys. Wallet. Badge. Gun.

Out the door. Lock it. Down the pavement.

My mind is racing.

Jesus christ, if we can dig up any security footage, even without Dexter having seen anything we might be able to see this guy's face, or at the least find a plate and put a BOLO out on the vehicle. _The fucking refrigerated vehicle._ ( _The ice truck._ )

I yank open the gate, hear it slam at my back. And then I'm practically jogging to my car.

I broke this theory yesterday— _yesterday —_ and no one listened to me. But as of tonight we know it exists, and if we can find it it'll be the first real fucking lead on this case, and it'll be because of me (and Dexter). At the least we now have the head, and maybe that'll finally get us an ID. Fuckin A, maybe I do have a chance for this transfer. Maybe just maybe I won't die a meter maid, and I'll finally have a chance to make Dad proud.

I hit the unlock button and climb into my car, shut the door, key the engine. My car hums to life, the radio along with it.

Cranking it up, I roll down the windows and back out of my space.

I hope I get there before LaGuerta does, just so I can be there to see the look on her face when she hears Dexter's story.


	10. Sleepless

_ _

_Sleepless  
_ _Setting: “Crocodile”_

* * *

A warm breeze pushes through the curtains, brushing across my back like fingertips. I listen to the occasional car pass the building, and, much less distantly, the steady sound of breathing. Sean fell asleep fifteen or twenty minutes ago. I wish I could join him, but I still feel too wired, even after all our messing around. I'm just glad this one doesn't snore.

I sigh.

LaGuerta, that fucking vindictive shitheel. I don't know how I ever convinced myself that me being the one who brought up the ice truck to begin with would change anything. When I asked to help look for it this morning she gave me this look like I was a toddler she'd been forced to babysit, said no and sent me right back out to the motel. At this point I've interviewed everyone who's even remotely associated with the Seven Seas looking for some “eye witness” who “interrupted” the killer, as if it wasn't patently obvious by now to me and half the cops working this case that not only is there no witness but there was never any interruption to begin with. Even Doakes agreed with me this morning when he overhead me bitching to Batista. Yet she refuses to let me touch any other aspect of the investigation, even when it was my theory that panned out. Hell, from what I can tell she's basically disregarded that I said anything in that briefing— when she talks about the ice truck she only ever mentions Dexter.

It's frustrating as fuck.

I rub my eyes, push the skin back to my temples.

Dexter. LaGuerta gave him the day off today, just as a break from all the death (literally) getting thrown at him. I don't know what possessed him to follow that ice truck, and it kind of scares me that the killer clearly noticed him do it. Dexter may not have seen his face, but that doesn't mean the psycho fuck didn't see his. And why the fuck would he throw her head at his car? Why did he have it sitting in his seat? Was he planning to dump it somewhere when Dexter found him?

My brother doesn't seem to be asking any of these questions. In fact, he seems totally nonplussed about the whole thing. Keeps saying he's fine. I would've gone over today after shift but he insisted it wasn't necessary, that he'd made plans with Rita anyway. Maybe he talks to her, I don't know, but I feel like if it were me I'd be pretty fucked up about the whole thing. I mean, a head? Fucking... frozen solid as Ted Williams, thrown at my car? Even discounting that, the fact that this guy who's murdered at least four women _saw_ me? I feel like I wouldn't be nearly as casual about that as my brother seems.

But then again, that's Dexter. Calm as still waters. If I had a hundred dollars for every time he's shown an emotion I couldn't pay my rent with it.

I roll onto my back, try to clear my head, but my thoughts keep swirling back.

Tami Burgess. Rachel Lewis. The two Jane Does.

I went to the morgue today as the coroner matched the head to the fourth victim, watched him stick it in a box and take dental x-rays, tuck the negatives into a folder with her case number. We know nothing about these two new dead women except for how they died, but on some level I _know_ them. They're the same women I would hang out with every day undercover. Virtually everything I told those women was a lie (except when it wasn't... a lot of them could relate to the lack of family, the absentee father, dead parents), but some very tiny part of me could appreciate the relationships. Girl bonding and all that crap. But for the most part they were decent human beings who'd ended up in a shitty life that they didn't have the know-how or the strength to get out of. I'm betting that these two Jane Does probably would've told me similar stories if they'd been on one of my streets.

As for the two who do have IDs, we know barely any more. Rachel doesn't have any family— she was a ward of the state until the system puked her out at 18 —and Tami's got a mother in Broward County Jail on drug charges and no known father, a sister living in Charlotte who's working as a waitress and basically cut ties with her family. Two women who were, as far as we could tell, alone in the world when they were taken and cut into pieces. No one to mourn them, or claim their bodies. Their effects will sit in storage forever, and their bodies will stay on ice until the case is closed, then they'll be shipped to potter's field to be forgotten. Or, if not forgotten, remembered just as props in a serial killer's sick-ass fucking displays.

I really want this guy, and not just as a stepping stone into Homicide (though, of course, there is that too). No one deserves to be robbed of a name and a future like that.

I still remember the way Dad would sometimes talk about working homicide, on those rare occasions we did talk. Maybe this is why he worked so hard to try to shield me from all this... darkness, so I wouldn't be kept up at night by it the way I think he was.

But I'm a lot stronger than Dad ever gave me credit for, and I feel at home in the station.

Even if I really can't fucking sleep.

I roll over, look at Sean. He's sleeping. The dim, vaguely orange-ish light traces his nose, his brow, the line of his shoulder as it disappears under the blanket. His expression is totally slack: no worries, no nightmares. I don't know if it annoys me or if I'm just jealous.

I push myself up, brush his hair a little.

“Hey,” I whisper, leaning down to his ear. “Wake up.”

He makes a grunting sort of sound as I kiss down his jaw, rolls onto his back. I follow his movement, climbing half over him.

“Hey,” I find his lips.

“Hmmnnhh,” he moans. His eyes open. “What?”

“Wake up,” I say into his mouth. One of my hands slides down his chest, slides down below the blanket and below the border as the other anchors me on his pillow. His hand comes up and lands on my back, and I shift on top of him, snake my leg around his.

“God you're so fucking sexy,” he breathes, voice throaty with sleep.

I can feel the tension melt away as his other hand comes up, pulls me closer. I kiss him again, closing my eyes, glad for that crash when he lets me in, just letting it all fucking go.

Because I just want to sleep.

 


	11. The Phone Rings

_ _

_The Phone Rings  
_ _Setting: “Crocodile”_

* * *

Fuck. What's the...

Fucking cockfuck...

My entire everything feels weighted with lead and stones and fucking... I reach blindly for the nightstand, opening an eye to check the clock. My vision is so bleary it takes a second to read it, then I finally reach the fucking phone and I pull it to me, rolling over.

6:16. The world better fucking be ending.

“Morgan,” I say, smashing my palm into my eye.

“Hey, Deb, I wake you up?”

The voice rings some distant bell. “Fuck do you want, Juan?” I ask.

“I'm more interested in what you'll want to do for me,” he says.

I keep rubbing. “I'm going to ram a fucking clock down your throat with your fucking balls. Do you know what time it is?”

“Fine, I just figured you'd want to know ASAP.”

“Know fucking _what?_ ”

“That ice truck you asked to look for.”

I let my hand slide down my face. “What?”

“Well, I think I found it. Matches the description you gave. 'Miami Chills Ice,' right?”

I sit up, the fog lifting suddenly and immediately. “Motherfucker.”

“Nice to hear your move up from beat duty hasn't improved your vocabulary.”

“Blow me,” I slide to the edge of the bed. “What's your 20?”

“Ocean Drive and 7th Street, on Miami Beach.”

“Did you check it out?” I rip open a drawer, grab undies and a bra.

“Yeah,” he says. “It's locked, unoccupied. Weird thing is it's still running.”

“It's running?” I toss my uniform onto the bed, find a sock on the floor and search for its mate.

“Yeah. I could hear the motor running; the back is cold.”

I lift yesterday's shirt, find the sock. “Holy christ on a cracker, that could be it.” I hit speaker, set the phone on top of the TV. “How long have you been sitting on it?”

“Like two minutes? I called you right after I checked it out.”

“Sit tight.” I take off the overlarge shirt I slept in, throw it on the bed. “I will be there in a half hour.”

“Ten fo.”

I hit the red button, jog naked to my shower, barely wait for it to get warm before hopping in.

I can't believe it. It's been a day. Less than. After spending my morning following up on possible “leads” from chop shops on LaGuerta's goose hunt, on lunch I put the word out with patrol to look for the truck on the streets. Was out until fucking two a.m. myself just roaming around, hoping to maybe get lucky, find it the same way Dexter did.

If this is actually it...

_Mother of tits in a basket._

I scrub myself off quickly, then hop out, towel down, head back into the bedroom. Toss the towel onto the bed along with everything else, grab my clothes and put them on, not quite into my pants as I go back into the bathroom to quickly do my teeth, make-up, pull my hair into a bun. Fuck breakfast; I can pick something up later.

I tear out, so excited I can hardly contain myself. My belt is sitting on a chair, and I wrap it around my waist, clip it on. The weight feels good. My badge and gun are sitting on the counter next to an empty take-out container (need to throw that out... later), and I quickly shove them both in the belt.

Shoes. Keys. Bag. Out the door.

Five minutes later I'm turning onto 95. The freeway's mostly clear at this hour, the sky peach from the sunrise. My thoughts are racing. All I can seem to ask myself is if this is really the truck, because Dexter was right yesterday: this is my golden ticket into Homicide. A theory in the briefing room, sure LaGuerta can ignore it (and she has), but if I found the _actual fucking truck_? She can't ignore that, can't put it on someone else. She had the department chasing it in all the wrong places, but if my hunch pans out then she'll have to fucking see that I can bring something to this investigation.

I floor it. I feel like every turn of the wheels is bringing me that much closer to the transfer, and that much farther away from Vice.

Because if this really is the truck...

( _What if it is the truck?_ )

I merge onto 195, alone, flying well above the speed limit. By the time I reach the causeway the sun is reflecting brightly off the ocean. Seagulls are flying around. Already I can see people in boats, taking advantage of their morning— probably a bunch of retirees with nothing but this to do on a Thursday. And then five minutes later I'm cruising by a golf course, lane hopping like an asshole, just wanting to get there.

Juan hasn't called, so nothing's changed. I unclip the radio from my belt, deciding to raise him just to keep myself occupied. “Juan,” I say when he radios back. “I'm en route.”

“Look for the Colony Hotel,” his voice crackles back. “It's one in a stretch of hotels out here. I'm parked outside a Johnny Rockets. If you see me you'll see the truck.”

“No movement?”

“No, nothing.”

“I'll be there in a minute.”

I stuff the radio into a cup holder. Once I pass the golf course I just guess the route to Ocean. The effort of navigating isn't really distracting me from the constant, recurring thought:

( _What if what if what if what_ )

I turn onto Ocean, roll by the long stream of green space to my left at a much slower pace. There are already beach goers out, joggers. On the right about a thousand fucking hotels. So many people want to stay beach-side, spend their fucking summer on the beach soaking in the sun and playing volleyball and...

I double-take, almost slamming the breaks as I spot the truck on the other side of the road. My blood pressure spikes, and the whole world seems to narrow down as if I'm looking at it through a funnel.

_Please god let it be the one..._

I reach for my radio. “I see you,” I say as I slow, spotting Juan Pierre's cruiser parked opposite the truck.

He flashes his sirens back, and I pull in behind him, kill the engine. Juan meets me at my door as I open it, a grin spread across his face.

“That the truck?” he asks.

“Jesus I hope so,” I say, my gaze already stuck to it.

“Listen, Deb,” he says, and I glance at him, “I'd love to stick around, but I've gotta get back to patrol.”

“No, go,” I say. “Thanks for sitting on this for me. I owe you big time for this.”

“If only I wasn't married.”

I grin, “Fuck off.”

He smiles and tosses me a wave, then heads back to his green and white.

I cross the street before he pulls away, my heart pounding hard in my throat. Even though Juan told me the truck was locked, I check the doors anyway, look at the back. True to his word, I can hear the motor running, and the steel is cool under my hand.

I walk around back, look up at the name. _MIAMI CHILLS ICE REFRIGERATED DELIVERY_ in big, blue capital letters, just like Dexter said.

_Fuck, this might be it._

I touch the truck again, suddenly wondering— _why_ is it running? If the plan was to hide it in plain sight, was he meaning for it to be found, or is he around here somewhere? How long has it been sitting here? And if he meant for us to find it, did he leave it running because he left something inside?

What if there's another dead woman in there?

Motherfuck. I have to know.

I pull my phone from a pocket, hit speed dial, press it against my ear as I touch the cold steel again.

Dexter answers on the fifth ring.


	12. Fingertips, Fingerprints

_ _

_Fingertips, Fingerprints  
_ _Setting: “Crocodile”_

* * *

Fucking fingertips. I swear to god, I'm not going to be able to eat sausage for at least a month after this.

“So, Morgan, what's your deal? You into this kind of shit?”

I glance up from the fingertips to meet Musaka's eyes, but his gaze is still trained downward. He's carefully rolling the fingertip with the orange nail polish around with a pair of tweezers, staring through a magnifying lens. I'm not sure what the fuck he's looking for.

“I'm not into any kind of shit,” I say, looking away again.

“Then why are you hanging around?”

“Coz I've got nothing better to do,” I say. And it's true— LaGuerta hasn't giving me any assignments, and as far as I know the only lead we have is currently being manipulated around by this bald little freak, so for me all there is to do is wait. All the other cops are currently working the Ricky Simmons case, but since I don't have an invitation to that particular party, I'm just standing here. Watched the ice melt. Watched Masuka call in a bunch of techs to take the water for testing. Now watching him turn the fingertips around and around, just waiting for him to finally print the goddamn things so I can try to get an ID.

A fifth victim. None of the last four were missing fingertips.

Jesus he's escalating fast.

“When are you going to print the goddamn things?” I ask.

“Patience, Morgan,” he says, still not looking at me. “You sure you're related to Poindexter?”

“We're not,” I shift against the shelf I've been leaning against for the past... I check my watch: hour and a half. “Dexter's my foster brother. Didn't you know that?”

This time he looks at me. “No. He's always said you're his sister.”

I pause at that little tidbit, taken aback. How could that not have come up? Or does Dexter just not make the distinction?

“So if you're not actually related...” he continues, looking back down at his tweezers, “Then he wouldn't mind if we were to—”

“I would rather fuck an unlubricated cactus,” I say.

“Hey, you say that now, but Vince Masuka grows on people.”

“So does athlete's foot.”

At that he grins.

“I swear to fuck if you're drawing this out...”

“Please,” he rolls the finger away like a mini hot dog on a baking pan, exchanges it for the purple one. “If you're planning to join us in the big leagues you should know that we do everything by the books here, cover everything in painstaking detail, leave no stone unturned. Nothing,” he gestures at his eyes, “gets past these.”

“That why you still have chocolate on your shirt?”

He glances down. “Ahh, what the fuck? I already changed my shirt once today.”

I snort, recross my arms.

Sighing, he looks back down through his lens.

I glance around the station. I'm not really sure where Dexter went— he wandered off ten minutes into Masuka thawing the ice block. LaGuerta's sitting in her office with the doors closed. Batista and Doakes are talking at the sergeant's desk, heads over a file. Yale and Soderquist are out at a suicide. Not sure what everyone else is doing; I haven't interacted much with most of the non-detectives yet, mainly because they keep looking at me like an intruder. Then again all I can fucking think about is how badly I want this transfer, and, after that, my silver shield. I also know that those younger guys are the source of the continuing rumor that I'm fucking Matthews for this, and it kind of annoys me, so at least for now I'm fine with keeping my distance.

I look back down at the fingertips. Despite LaGuerta's hissy at the crime scene, I think me finding the ice truck may've finally cooled her off a little. If I hadn't found it we'd still be chasing ghosts, and this case would've probably remained dead in the water until another body turns up, and I think she knows it. Maybe that's why she didn't object when I stuck around to watch the truck get dismantled and to watch Masuka deal with the fingertips. She still hates my guts (and I likewise) but the fact that it's okay for me to be standing here instead of out as far away from Miami Metro as possible feels like progress.

Unless she's in there plotting some way to write me up over me putting out an informal BOLO over dispatch (because I sure as fuck didn't have the authority to make that request)...

I glance at her office again. And for some reason I find myself asking, “Do you know why LaGuerta's got such an enormous cockroach up her ass over me?”

Masuka gaze flicks up from the fingers. “No.”

“Is she like this with everyone?”

He shrugs, “She likes to be in control of everything.”

“So, what, I'm too unpredictable for her?”

Another shrug. “I don't know.”

“Fountain of fucking information...” I mutter.

“You do come on a little strong,” he says.

I glare at him. “That coming from you? Go fuck off.”

“Please, you think she would've hired me?” He sits up from his hunch, rolls his shoulders. “If I hadn't been in this department for the last eight years, she would've ripped me out by the roots. And here you are rolling in like a steam engine.”

I meet his eyes. “Jeez, fuck off twice.”

He squints at me, leans forward. “Just tell me... Are you really whacking off Matthews?”

I get off the shelf. “Eat shit and die. I'm gonna go get a fucking coffee.”

“Wait,” he says, and I stop before I've really gone anywhere. “I'm ready to print.”

“Fucking finally,” I settle back against the shelf.

He grabs some glass plate thing from below his desk, plugs it into his computer, clicks his mouse around as a blue light on the plate comes on. Interest caught, I walk around to him, look down as he grabs one of the fingertips and presses it against a white oval on the plate. After a second an image appears on his monitor, and he hits a key, then does the same thing again for another finger. I watch with ambivalence— on the one hand, it's kind of amazing, but on the other, I don't know why the fuck he didn't just do this first before checking out every individual molecule of the fingers.

“You gonna run them?” I ask.

“Well, yeah,” he says.

“Can you show me how?”

He glances back at me. “Sure.” He almost sounds surprised.

Fifteen minutes of image uploading and database selection and AFIS scanning later, Masuka says exactly what I was hoping for: “We've got a hit.”

I lean onto his desk, looking at his screen.

“God, come a little closer.”

“Focus,” I say.

He double clicks on something,opens up a window. “Sherry Taylor,” he reads. “Arrested on drug possession in 2003, drunk and disorderly in 2002. Couple busts for prostitution.”

“Another hooker,” I say. I look at her picture. Even with the smirk and the lines under her eyes and the obviously bleached hair, she still looks pretty, and in this really familiar sort of way. Something about that smirk reminds me of a few of the girls I used to work with...

I wonder if she painted her fingernails, or if our psycho fuck did it for her. Was she alive when he chopped them off?

I curl my own fingers reflexively. “This is great,” I say. “Can you print this off for me?”

“Sure,” Masuka says and hits a couple keys. The printer at his elbow whirs to life. I watch as it slowly pukes out the paper.

_We found this girl because of me._

Once it's done, he grabs the sheets, carefully rearranges them into a straight stack, then hands them to me.

“Thanks,” I say, walking off, flipping through the information. Her incident reports aren't terribly interesting, nothing original. She never served any hard time, just community service. She was 23. Way too fucking young.

I stop in front of Batista's desk. He's back sitting there. Doakes is gone.

“What've you got there?” his voice attracts my attention.

I flip the page down, see that he's looking at me and my papers. “An ID on our latest vic,” I say. “The fingers in the ice truck.”

“Yeah?” he holds his hand out.

“Mm,” I nod, hand them to him.

“ 'Sherry Taylor,' “ he reads. “Well, at least that's one less Jane Doe.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Weird that he'd leave us the fingertips. Any other body part besides the head and we couldn't have made an ID.”

“You think it was intentional?” he asks.

I shrug. “You ask me, this is all some fucked up message. He left us that truck knowing we were going to find it— that's why it's so clean. I don't know what the fuck he's trying to say, but clearly he doesn't care about keeping his victims anonymous.”

“What's that tell you?”

I cross my arms, “That he knows there's nothing in the vics' lives to tie him to them. I'm betting even if we turned over every fucking stone in their lives he'd never come up. He probably paid them for an hour, killed them after they got into the car.”

He grins at me.

“What?”

“You sound like a cop.”

“Fuck off,” I say, but I grin too.

“This is good work, Morgan,” he hands me back the papers. “This won't go unnoticed.”

“Thanks.” I can feel my smile fade. Was it enough? Or will LaGuerta still punt me out of Homicide at the next opportunity?

“Hey,” he gets up. “I know the lieutenant's been giving you a hard time, but you've been doing solid police work. Your theory is the first real break we've had in five months.”

I search his face, “You mean that?”

“Yeah,” he smiles and pats my shoulder.

That makes me feel slightly better, even as I glance back at LaGuerta's office. I hope he's right. I really, really hope he's right. “So what now?” I ask.

“Well, Doakes and I have to follow up on the Simmons case, but why don't you run our victim through the DMV, see if you can find any next of kin.” He pauses. “You okay to make a notification? It's okay to say no.”

The thought dries my mouth a little. “No,” I say. “No, I mean, yes, I'm fine. I can do that.”

“If you find anyone, don't contact them until I get back. I'll help you through it.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks.” I recross my arms. It hadn't occurred to me that with the ID might come a notification. Our other known vics were pretty much alone in the world, but Sherry could've had family.

What the fuck do you even say to that? _'Hey, we found your daughter's fingertips in a fucking block of ice in the back of a truck. Just her fingertips, we don't know where the rest of her is. Yet. Hopefully.'_

( _Fuck._ )

“You should feel proud,” Batista calls me back. He's putting on his hat. “I'll be back in an hour. Take a break, grab a sandwich or something.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He waves and heads off. I watch him go, then stare down at the papers in my hands.

Sherry Taylor. My first ID.

I hope I don't let her down... for both our sakes.


	13. Notification

_ _

_Notification  
_ _Setting: “Crocodile”_

* * *

I drop the phone into its cradle, then just sort of slump into my fingers, closing my eyes.

That was... well, fucking horrible.

It didn't take much digging to locate Sherry Taylor's next of kin: her mother's name was on the bail records. All it took was a DMV search and then I had a name and address in Jacksonville. Batista was there to hold my hand yesterday when I called her, but all I got was her machine. I spent the rest of my shift sitting at the empty desk in the pen, wondering if she was going to call back, trying to plan out what I was going to say when she did. According to Masuka, Sherry's definitely dead, and I swear to fuck I must've planned out a hundred ways to tell her that along with the fact that we've only recovered her fingertips and have no idea where the rest of her is, but the phone never rang.  
Until now. When they called up to say I had a phone call and I picked it up and I was being asked if I was the 'Officer Morgan who left a message yesterday about my daughter,' all the responses I'd planned out evaporated, and of course Batista had gone on lunch, so it was just me. But it wouldn't have mattered anyway even if I had remembered one of my scripts: I was not prepared for that conversation. I'd been expecting a similar story to our other two vics, to a lot of the girls I met through Vice— estrangement, a family with a drug problem, maybe a mother who used to turn tricks herself —but Michelle Davis sounded like a perfectly well-adjusted woman over the phone, the kind of chick you'd meet on line at Starbucks and have a conversation with about the humidity, and her silence after I relayed my news carved a rift into my soul ( _“I'm really sorry to tell you that your daughter is dead_...).

And then she started fucking talking. Filled in all the blanks that the rap sheets left open.

Sherry was a college drop-out. Got into booze and drugs after her parents divorced, and halfway through her second semester she dropped everything to follow a deadbeat boyfriend down to Miami. The mother has no idea what happened with the boyfriend except that one year later Sherry was working as a stripper and the boyfriend was gone. After that, contact between them gradually ceased. She didn't even know Sherry was a prostitute (fuck me, should I have told her?), hasn't seen her daughter in three years. She asked about burial plans and I didn't have the first fucking clue what to tell her. Even if we'd had her body I wouldn't have known, but the fact that I had to tell her we only had pieces of her... small pieces of her...

Christ mother fuck. ( _how much ash would they even give her if she wanted to cremate?_ )

They don't cover this shit at the Academy, or anywhere. And fuck, that pause, like she was waiting for me to tell her it was a joke or something, or like she was searching for a response. I told her I'd call if we made any progress ( _if we find the rest of her..._ ) but I really don't know if it should be me who calls her when or if we know any more.

“What's a matter with you?”

I let my hand fall, look up to see Batista.

Something inside me snaps, all that helpless I felt in that conversation converted instantly into hatred toward this fucker standing right in front of me, with his stupid fucking hat.

“Where the fuck were you?” I ask, standing up.

As his eyebrows arch I remember that I'm just a nobody here on tenuous invitation, and so far he's been my only ally.

“Her fucking mother called,” I add before he can say anything. “Sherry Taylor.”

His brows relax, reform into something more sympathetic. “When?”

“After you left,” I say.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “You alright?”

“Am _I_ alright?” I repeat. “She wanted to fucking see her daughter again, and I had to tell her we don't have her body.” I sink back into my seat. “And if we do end up finding her, who's to say she won't be all cut up like our other vics? We can't show her that.”

He sits in the chair by the desk. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to make that notification.”

“I can handle it,” I say.

He studies me. “It can be tough for all of us, even for the cops who've made a hundred calls like that. There's no shame in that.”

“Yeah, well, I'm fine.” I force a small smile to my face.

“Okay, you're fine,” he says. “And you're past time for your lunch. Go and take your break, and when you come back you can help with an interview.”

“I'm not hungry,” I say. “What interview?”

“Morgan—“ he cuts himself off, “Deb, take your break. I won't start without you.”

I search his face for a second, though I don't really know for what. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“What can I say? The department needs another pretty face.” He pauses, grins, “You know, besides mine.”

I smile, reach over and push his hat down his face. “Fuck off.”

He adjusts it. “We got a possible hit on the woman in the pool. A pro called in a missing persons report, said it might be her friend Cassandra. Soderquist ran our vics' photos down there and she said it could be the pool vic, so she's coming in.”

I almost feel like he might be fucking with me. “And you're inviting me?”

“Yeah. You're on this, and, frankly, with everyone working the Simmons case I could use a partner.”

I lean back. “No shit...”

He stands. “Go.”

“Alright,” I throw my hands up in defeat, then push out of my chair. I can hear him settling into his desk as I head for the elevator. Just before I exit the pen I glance back to see if Dexter's back from his own lunch (maybe I could talk to him?), but I don't see him behind his blinds, so I keep on going, stab the elevator button.

Bits and pieces of the conversation I just had bounce around my thoughts as I wait: the grief in Michelle Davis' voice, the lame-ass words that kept falling out of my mouth. I didn't know what to say.

I'm not really a stranger to grief. Mom... she was sick a long time, and even though I was young I still knew somewhere deep down that I was going to lose her. Maybe it was just the way people talked about her, the way Dad looked at her, the way my teachers would look at me, but I think somehow even when she was alive I was grieving her. And after she died everything was always unbalanced— I don't think Dad was really prepared to be a single parent. Sometimes it seemed like he couldn't even fucking look at me, especially those months right after Mom died, maybe because it was too painful. I have her eyes, her hair, her lips, grew up to be just a little taller. I think maybe he never got over losing her, and that's why that void in our family never seemed to fill, why he always kept his distance from me.

And then he died too, not even that long after Mom.

I wonder what it must be like for Michelle Davis, to have gotten used to living with that void where her daughter used to be, and then out of the blue one day she checks her messages and there's a call from the Miami PD. Divorced, no other kids. I wonder if she's been grieving her daughter for years, and if that's why she didn't cry. Maybe like me she'd come to expect the eventuality, had run through the scenario so many times that when it finally arrived she didn't feel anything but numb as all that expectation was drained away, replaced by that hard, icy reality.

I remember when Dad told me Mom was gone. I remember walking into Dad's room and finding an empty bed, having a nurse tell me that he'd had a second attack a half hour ago and they couldn't save him. I was the one who told Dexter.

Delivering that kind of news again... Knowing the kind of destruction I'm creating... Even all those years on patrol it didn't really get any easier.

I pause, suddenly falling back to reality. At some point I went from standing in the station to clicking the unlock on my car. I only dimly remember pulling out of my keys.

I open my door, slide inside, toss my purse onto a seat. It's stuffy and smells vaguely like cigarettes and yesterday's take-out. There's something comforting about it. I slam the door, refocus my energy on keying the engine, fiddling with the air conditioning.

I don't like thinking about all that stuff. My parents died a long time ago. The grief crawled inside, faded slowly, gradually melted into the background of my life. That conversation hurt a lot more than I thought it would...

I stop as I pull into reverse, re-settle the stick back into park, ease off the brake.

After a second's hesitation I reach into my bag, find my phone. Dial.

He answers just as I'm thinking it might go to voice mail.

“Hey, babe. What's up?”

I don't know. “Hey, I'm on lunch. Want to meet up?” The want spills out as I feel it.

“Now?” I can hear his breath hit the receiver.

“Yeah,” I say. I shift in my seat. Dexter rescheduled dinner for tomorrow (some issue with Rita finding a sitter), and I was planning on hooking up with Sean tonight anyway. But as I sit here I can feel this ache in my chest that I don't particularly want to acknowledge.

“Uh, yeah, sure, alright,” he says. “Want me to meet you somewhere?”

“My place,” I say. His auto shop is near there. I'm not but I can get there. “Twenty minutes.”

“I'll see you there.”

“Great.”

He clicks off. I flip the phone shut, toss it into the cup holder.

Quickie on my break. Kind of makes me feel like I am the person those assholes in there keep suggesting I am, that I'm weak. And maybe I shouldn't have made that call; should've just gone to lunch and maybe eaten outside on a picnic bench or something, cleared my head, but the reality is the quiet's never done it for me. It only would've made it worse.

And it's too late. I already called.

And I fucking _want_ to.

I shift out of park, twist to check behind myself. Back out.


	14. Sex

_ _

_Sex  
_ _Setting: “Crocodile”_

* * *

We've been lying here for at least nine minutes. Even with the A/C and the blankets kicked down to our feet it's just hot, and we're both slippery with sweat, and I'm sure his sweat is getting into my hair but it doesn't really matter because we still have...

I shift my arm against his skin, look at my watch— the only thing I'm still wearing. For some reason. We've got an hour and ten before we have to leave.

We still have time to shower. Finally having that dinner Dexter's been insisting on. I haven't seen Rita in a couple months. Haven't had dinner at an actual restaurant in awhile either. Sean and I mostly order in, and I can't remember the last time I bothered to go to a sit down place alone.

“When do we have to go?” Sean asks, his fingers traveling up my arm. His breath puffs into my hair.

“We've got time,” I exhale.

It's so hot. When I take his hand and kiss his skin all I taste is salt. But now that it's over all my thoughts are swirling back. Today. Yesterday. This whole week. I mean, what the fuck?

We got a name for the pool vic. The hooker who came in yesterday confirmed the ID after we handed her a small stack of polaroids from the morgue. The first thing she said was “Jeez, she's so pale.” And she is— milky white, from the liquid nitrogen. I know from standing over her chopped-up body in person. And after carefully turning over the pictures she said it was her friend Cassie Mendoza, then she looked away, stared at something in the corner of the room. I wonder how well or how long she knew her. Were they friends, or did they just share a street corner?

Four out of five IDed. How are we not any closer to a suspect?

“What'cha thinking about?” Sean gently slides some of my hair off my face.

“This case.”

“The ice truck guy?” he says.

It's weird that that's becoming his moniker. This guy's the “ice truck killer” now. He got that name from my brother's theory, my lead. “Yeah,” I say. I start running my finger down his ribs, tracing little circles. “Even though we've gotten almost all his victims IDed we're no closer to catching this fuck. I mean, he chopped off her fucking fingertips...” I stop, lay my hand flat. Stare at it. “You should've seen it— fucking frozen in a block of ice, all spread out. Like this.” I hold my hand up. Every nail a different color.

“That's messed up,” he says.

“And fucking LaGuerta. Sending me out to interview the guy who's truck was stolen, interviewing the hookers who knew one of our vics.” Cassie. We have no idea who Sherry ran with. Batista took care of the notification while I was out chatting up the pros. “Anyone with half a fucking brain would know he's just taunting us, that we're not gonna find anything by looking at his victims. I mean, he threw a fucking head at my brother.”

“Hey,” he says. He pulls on my shoulder.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing. You're just so damn pretty.”

I smile on reflex, but my head still isn't here. He shifts up, draws me up with him, tips my chin. For a second we kiss. For a second the thoughts go away. But then...

“But why fucking fingertips?” I pull away. “What could that possibly mean?” And the nail polish?

“I dunno,” he pulls me back, this time slightly more forcefully. No talking. He doesn't want talking. Why am I even talking about this?

I close my eyes, feel my blood surging. Sometimes it seems like this is the only thing I really understand, the only thing I'm really good at. Sweat and saliva and kissing and touching and his fingers squeezing and caressing, lightly pinching. He's so fucking attractive. It makes me feel attractive, wanted, useful, alive.

He presses me into the bed, climbs on top of me. I reach up to kiss him, pull him down to my lips as his legs spread my knees. We just did this but it doesn't even matter.

Part of me's still thinking about those damn body parts though. So fucking pale and white and dead, laid out on plastic sheets. A whole life reduced to props in a serial killer's display. And those fingertips...

I force myself to refocus, or he does. His hands. My breath fires out. What the fuck am I doing?

I don't want him on top of me. I force him to roll onto his back again, arch backwards for a moment as I straddle him. “You're so fucking pretty,” he moans, staring up at me.

“So're you,” I murmur, falling back down.


	15. Leaving Vice

_ _

_Leaving Vice  
_ _Setting: “Crocodile”_

* * *

I still can't fucking believe it. This is all I've wanted for so goddamn long. It was starting to feel like I'd never get it, like I'd end up right back here, yet...

“Morgan.”

I stop just as I'm heading into my (old) cubicle. My (ex) cube mate is walking over, coffee in one hand, stirry stick in another. Vincent Lorenzo. Not that I really have anything against the guy but fucking hell am I glad I won't be seeing him again, at least in a professional capacity.

I'm so excited to tell him I can hardly contain myself. He's only the second person I'll get to tell. Dexter had disappeared from his office by the time I left LaGuerta's, and Sean's not picking up the phone. So far I've only gotten to tell Batista. (I mean, Doakes heard but I don't think he really cared...)

I'm grinning so much it's actually starting to hurt my face.

“What's up with you?” Lorenzo asks. He slips by me, sets his cup on his desk. “Finally back from your assignment?”

“No,” I say. “Guess what?”

He plops into his chair. “What?”

I dig my fingers under my belt. “I fucking got the bump. I am out of this shithole.”

He stares at me. After a second he goes, “What?”

“Yeah. I know.” I rock on my heels. “Couldn't fucking believe it either, but I was just told.”

He leans back. “Jeez, congratulations.”

“Fuckin A,” I say. “Working this ice truck fucker case. Caught a lead. Next thing I know, Matthews is handing me the reassignment.”

“Yeah, I've caught some of the news off the grapevine.” He stirs his coffee around. “You were the one who found the ice truck, right?”

“Yeah,” I say.

I hear the sound of wheels on carpet, then turn as something hits my leg.

“So you're leaving us?” Lucas says. It was his knee that hit me. When I look up I can see that our conversation has started attracting the attention of other cops. Mills, Lucas' partner, has rolled out just behind him.

“Yeah,” I say. “I've had enough of you motherless fucks. Just got my transfer to Homicide.”

“Then what're you doing here?” Mills asks.

“I just came to pick up my fucking snow globe,” I say. And to tell everyone. Not that I truly feel close to any of the cops in this room, but I have shared a department with them for two years and I know these guys. I want them all to know that I'm more than just a pair of legs. That my ambition was more than just blowing hot air.

“Always knew you had it in you, Morgan,” Lorenzo says.

“You did?” Lucas says.

“I didn't.” I turn to see Boyd. Both his arms are hanging lazily off the walls to my cubicle. I grin, but not nicely. I fucking hate his guts. He was the one who zip-tied me the night of the big raid, frog-marched me to the van. I've met some pricks, but Boyd's a fucking cactus.

“I heard you were fucking Matthews,” he says, now that I'm looking at him. “And now here you are, prancing in with your shiny new transfer.”

I step forward, closer to his face. “I earned this transfer, fucknut.”

He grins at me meanly. “How does the Captain like it? On your knees or your back?”

I feel that old anger, but this time this guy doesn't hold any actual authority over me. As of today we work for different departments. I take another step closer. The words bubble up my throat, “Fuck off and die, asshole. You may've gotten your shield because your dad's buddies with the Commissioner, but you're such an impotent, ignorant, untalented waste of fucking air that even if you let half the brass blow their loads down your throat for the next two decades you still would never climb out of this pen.”

He glares at me. I glare back. He's treated me like shit ever since I rejected one of his drunken advances two weeks into my move to Vice, and it only got worse after they started putting me out in the sex suit. His rank and his relationship with the brass was the only the only thing keeping my mouth shut, but now as I look at him I don't feel threatened anymore.

“Come on,” Simon, Boyd's partner, appears at his elbow. “Not worth it.”

“Fucking whore,” he mutters as his parting words, then allows himself to be led away.

I flip him the bird. When I glance back a whole bunch of the guys are staring at me.

“They loan you a set of balls at Homicide?” Mills asks.

“I hear LaGuerta's got two to spare,” Lucas adds.

LaGuerta, I snort. The fact that she was the one who had to give me the promotion is still funny when I think about it.

“Blow me,” I say to them, then reach down to grab the few things I bothered to bring here. Pens, pencils, pencil holder, paperclips. A snow globe my mother bought for me at Key West a year before she died (or a sand globe, I guess; it rains white, glittery sand, not snow). Some random make-up, papers, ibuprofen, a mug, couple pictures. I spent so much time on the streets or in motel rooms I never really moved into this cube. Even when I was desk-bound I never truly felt at home here: I was constantly searching for something that would get me out of this department, from pretty much the moment I realized what being undercover in Vice meant for me.

As I'm standing here it seems unreal. My whole professional life has changed in an instant, but everything here looks exactly the same. Lorenzo's still wearing one of the six shirts he seems to own. Lucas and Mills are still bonded at the hip. Boyd's still a misogynist cocksucker. And I'm going to leave and never come back.

“Hope you find what you're looking for in Homicide,” Lorenzo says after I've shoved all my shit into my bag and am checking drawers.

“Yeah, me too,” I say. Finding nothing except a gum wrapper, I shut the drawer and turn to him. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

“Hey, you were a unique cube-mate when you were here,” he says. “And for the record I don't think anyone here actually believes you're sleeping with Matthews. People just like to talk, you know?”

I shrug. “In a week no one's gonna give a shit anymore. But thanks.”

He nods, pushes out of his chair, then holds out his hand. “Nice working with you, Morgan.”

I take it, “Right back at you.”

A few of the guys clap as I make my way out of the pen, and I wave to them as I go: Mills, Lucas, Hanson, Stewart, Vaughn, Barber, Shultz, the two Rodriguez-es (who are not related). The lieutenant's not in his office, so I guess I'll have to talk to him later. He'll probably be glad to see me go, honestly.

I hit the elevator button. Take one last look into the hall as I walk inside and wait for the doors to shut. And then they shut.

And with that, it's over. I'm no longer a Vice cop.

When they open again I head for my car, slipping on my aviators as I exit the building, spinning my keys around my finger. Everything in my world feels wonderfully light, all the frustrations and the stress lifting with the knowledge that I finally got the transfer. Tomorrow I get to start ditching my uniform again, but this time I'm trading it for a suit, not a g-string, like a real fucking cop. And I can finally start working toward earning my shield.

I open my door, let the heat flow out for a second. It's at least ninety degrees out here, and since I didn't find shade to park under my car's probably as hot as the surface of the Sun right now.

As I lean against the hot steel, I decide to pull out my phone, try Sean again. He hasn't been picking up today, but tonight drinks are non-negotiable.

The phone rings two times, then stops. It sounds like it either dropped or he picked up but isn't saying anything. “Hello?” I say. “Sean?”

“Hello?” I hear back. But it's not Sean. It's a woman's voice. “Who's this?” she asks.

“Deb.” I shift, feeling... well, something in my midsection. “Who's this?”

“Sean's wife.”

The words are like a knife to my gut. “What?” I say.

“I'm Patricia Yates, Sean's wife.” Somehow I can tell she and I are having similar feelings. “Who're you?”

“Fuck me,” I whisper.

“What?”

“Are you fucking with me?” I ask, though I know she isn't.

What the fuck.

“Me?” she says. Now there's anger in her voice. “Are you the whore who's been sleeping with my husband?”

“I...” I don't even know what to do. I've been cheated on before but I've never been the other woman. “Fuck balls,” I say, flipping my phone shut.

For a moment I just stand there against the car, staring off into the parking lot, feeling the sun beating down, feeling the steel burn into my skin. Almost three weeks and I never fucking noticed, but now it all makes sense. Why we always met at my place and never his, why he usually didn't spend the night, why he'd never take a phone call in the same room with me.

 _Because that motherfucker is married._ (For how long? Jesus, does he have kids?)

I abruptly get into my car, slam the door, toss the phone and my bag onto the passenger seat, turn over the engine, crank up the A/C.

And of all the fucking days to find out.

The shining light of my reassignment feels all but snuffed out as I drive back home, thoughts lost in a swirling mix of hurt and betrayal and guilt and anger. It pisses me off that he took this from me, that he had to be an asshole. Not that our relationship has really been much outside the bedroom. I'm never really that interested in talking. He never has much to talk about. But then again, of course he wouldn't, because he's been hiding half his life from me.

Jesus Christ, do I know how to pick them.

My phone rings in my hand just as I'm unlocking the door to my apartment. Swinging it open, I trade the keys for the phone, then glance at the caller ID.

Sean.

I want to hear him admit that he's married, that he's a lying, cheating bastard. An hour ago all I'd wanted was to celebrate with him, get drunk with him, have...

Setting my jaw, I flip the phone open, press it against my ear.

“You've got two minutes, asshole.”


	16. New Clothes

 

_ _

_New Clothes  
_ _Setting: “Popping Cherry”_

* * *

I don't really enjoy shopping.

I have this vague memory of going out and raiding the sales rack with my mother, but Dad would've traded an hour at the mall for a unanesthetized root canal any day of the week. Honestly I think he used to just hand me or Dex his credit card and give us a limit, say he'd be back in two hours. Dexter would wander one way; I'd wander another. A year or so after he died I got a job so I wouldn't be suckling off Dexter's money and Dad's pension, but even when it was my money and my time to spend I never really learned to appreciate the whole shopping experience. Clothes are clothes. Shoes are shoes. I swear I've had this same pair of aviators for three years now.

I take them off, pop them into their case, then toss them into my purse, which I drop beside the plastic bags I just put down. Then I plop onto my bed beside the blazer I once bought for court, exhaling. After a second I reach down for my boots and unzip them, then let them fall off my feet.

It's not that I didn't have “professional clothes.” I did. I do. On those days when I wasn't playing dress up, I'd go to work in a suit. But when I searched through my closet last night for something appropriate for a funeral, it occurred to me that I need more blouses, more pants, more blazers, a new pair of boots, because before I just didn't wear them often enough to need a lot of them. So after the funeral I headed into town to supplement my wardrobe.

So much Halloween stuff... so many people digging through sales racks with sweaty armpits and carts and cell phones... and me with my basket in my fucking court clothes, grabbing anything and everything that looked suit-ish. I went to a couple stores. Every time I looked in the mirror I kept imagining myself walking into Homicide in whatever I was wearing, sitting down at my new desk, chewing the fat with my new coworkers.

New coworkers. And a _desk._ My fucking desk.

I grin, staring up at my ceiling. Yesterday was my first official day as a homicide cop. Nothing had really changed with the ice truck killer case (and still nothing has changed), but everything else seemed changed to me. I was given the empty desk I've been using the last few days. I got to put my stuff all over it, then set up my new account records for the computer, fill out a lot of paperwork and meet with my old Vice lieutenant (fun). I went out for drinks with a few of the guys later, but not for long or very late. I'd've taken it personally, what with it being a Friday night, but half the Force went to Ricky Simmons' funeral today, so I guess I just picked a bad time to get the reassignment.

I still can't fucking believe I got the reassignment. If it wasn't for that immediate sucker punch from Sean I'd question if this wasn't all a dream...

Sean... I exhale. Thankfully he hasn't called since yesterday morning. He left a message I didn't listen to before I deleted it. The only comfort I'm taking is that his wife knows, so by now I'm sure he's been moved to a motel room or some friend's couch, alone after having destroyed both the relationships he was juggling (not that we really _had_ much of a relationship...).

But I'm done thinking about him. He's out of my life.

I roll off the bed, decide to hang up the stuff I bought before I forget and they end up lying here all day.

I have the whole rest of the weekend to myself, but I sure as shit don't have any ideas. These last few weeks the ice truck investigation's been consuming all my off-time in an effort to land the transfer. Now that I have it I don't feel any less motivated, but there's still nothing new. I've got all the reports stacked in my living room, but I know I'm not going to find anything in them no matter how much I stare at them. There's no pattern to these girls beyond their profession, and he didn't leave anything incriminating in that ice truck because he wanted us to find it. At this point all there is to do is wait for another body to turn up.

I pull out of the new shoes, find a place for them on the floor, shove the box back in the bag.

And that's just messed up. Who knows how many more girls this fuck's gonna kill before he makes a mistake. It pisses me off that we're all basically just attendants to this cocksucker's twisted art pieces. Who are these bodies even intended for? Him? If they were, would he really be leaving them out to be found? But if he's directing them at us, the police, then why? It's not like he's chopping off everything but their middle fingers or leaving their asses exposed. There's not even anything particularly sexualized about the victims, beyond the fact that they were hookers. Is he only killing hookers because it's convenient, because he can easily get them to come with him to his kill room? Because if that's true than the identities of these women really won't make a difference, because when he picked them up it wasn't any different to him than picking out canvas at an art supply store. All that really seems to matter is that they're white, female, and dead.

Which means we'd have a fuck of a time preventing it if (when) he decides to kill again.

I slip the last shirt onto a hanger, then crumple the bags and head for the kitchen to put them in the garbage can. When I pull the thing out from under the sink all I see inside is crumpled tin foil and beer bottles and one of those plastic to go containers from whatever it was I picked up the other night.

Pathetic.

I stuff the bags in, then head to my couch and collapse onto it. Maybe after sunset I'll drive down to the gym, run a few miles, work up a sweat, then go and get... I don't know, something fried. Then when I come home I can take a long bath and go to bed early. I still have no idea about Sunday, but, hey, who knows, maybe I'll do that whole thing again tomorrow, just trade some of the cardio for weights.

But for now TV (I should find another book...).

And maybe a cigarette or three.

I need a life.


	17. Another Body in Butcher Paper

_ _

_Another Body in Butcher Paper  
_ _Setting: “Popping Cherry”_

* * *

I knew her.

The thought keeps recurring as I make my way out of the arena, my footsteps echoing weirdly off the shiny vinyl flooring. I shove another mini chocolate doughnut into my mouth, wave at an officer as I pass him.

I knew her and it bothers me. It was fucked up enough seeing strangers all chopped up and wrapped in butcher paper, but when I recognized her face it was like a shot to the stomach. All pale and cold and dismembered and dead. Cherry. Sherry Taylor.

How the fuck didn't I recognize her? I must not have really looked at her picture. I need to see it again. She was blonde in the mug that AFIS turned up, I remember that. And plumper. Maybe along with the hair dye she had work done, lost weight. But it's still fucked up that I never recognized her. A few weeks ago I saw her every day, and we'd chat about random things: men, money, expectations, the weather. Jesus, it was her fingertips in the back of that van. And it was her mother I talked to. That was her history. I remember she used to talk about the divorce and how it fucked everything up for her, how she put her faith in a boy who turned out to be a lying, cheating douchebag who beat on her and stole her money shortly after she followed him to Miami. But I never even thought of Cherry while I was talking to Michelle Davis. Never occurred to me that we were talking about a person we both knew.

I'm going to have to call her again. I'm going to have to tell her we found the rest of her daughter (Jesus, I hope she doesn't still want to see her). Should I tell her I knew her?

No. No, that wouldn't be appropriate. I don't have anything to offer her. Cherry was a tough girl but she was just like pretty much everyone else on that corner: stuck, with no real plan to get out of the life. If her mom asked me how Sherry and I knew I each other I wouldn't even know what to say.

( _“Oh, I'm a former Vice officer. Your daughter was one of the prostitutes who I used to use as camouflage...”_ )

I shove the last doughnut into my mouth, open the door. Immediately there are voices calling out to me, and for a second I freeze in the entrance, seeing a sea of reporters directly between me and where I left my car.

“ _Officer, can you tell us anything about what's inside?” “Is this the Ice Truck Killer?” “Where is Lieutenant LaGuerta?” “Is it true there's a body on the ice?”_

I swallow the doughnut before I've really chewed it. The lump is hard in my throat as it goes down, but at least I can manage a few 'No comments' as I walk toward and under the tape cordoning them from the arena. No one follows me to my car. Maybe they sense I'm too low ranking to be able to feed them anything (as if I would if I could anyway...).

I get into my car, slam the door. I want to get away from the circus before it starts. Once LaGuerta comes out she'll end up making a statement, and I'd rather not hear it. It was obvious that the credit to finding the ice truck was going to go to LaGuerta— I'm not naive enough to think someone with my rank and standing would get the recognition in the media —but it still annoys me the way she talks about the Ice Truck Killer on camera, and I'm not really interested in hearing how she's going to talk about Sherry Taylor once she comes out (my find, my ID).

( _my friend_ )

I drive out of the parking lot.

I don't know if Cherry was ever really a friend. None of those girls could've been, at least not truly, since I was a liar myself, and I was spying on them. But on some level I did _know_ her. Under different conditions, if life hadn't fucked her, I don't know, maybe we could've bonded in a real way. She was a nice person. Funny.

I wonder what happened to her, and when, and why. What made this guy go after her? Why her out of all the other girls who had probably been standing there (Shanda, Raquelle, Candice, Gabrielle, Bridgette, Mia...), or was she just the first one unlucky enough to make eye contact?

And when did he take her? Jesus, if I hadn't gotten myself onto this investigation, would I have been on that street corner right with Sherry? What if he'd chosen me? I would've ended up busting him for Johning. How ridiculous would that've been? (Not that I could've known...)

I head for 95. If I had to guess where I'll find my contacts, I'm going with somewhere in south Allapattah. I could call someone in Vice, but there's no guarantee they would know, since I was the only one stationed with this group, and besides which I'm still trying to put distance between me and my old department. I only just got this transfer.

My first official homicide call.

And then there's the missing night watchman, Tony Tucci. His disappearance is suspicious but not in the way LaGuerta thinks. There's no way the guy's a viable suspect. It's too obvious. The Ice Truck Killer's been absolutely meticulous, never leaves a trace. Dumping a body in his own place of employment and then bolting? Yeah right. Not this guy. Like Cherry and all these other girls, Tucci was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it's only a matter of time before another body turns up.

No, I'd lay even money the only people alive who might've seen him are Shanda and Raquelle's little band. Sherry was one of their flock, and if he took her off a street corner then those girls were nearby. If one of them actually saw his face it could be a big break for us.

And fuck but I'd love to come back with something that big, just to prove right out of the gate that the instincts that got me this reassignment weren't just a fluke, that I'll bring value to this department. Maybe then LaGuerta will finally cut me some slack.

And that would be great, because I'm really getting sick of hearing her cheeks clench whenever I come into the room.


	18. Cactus

_ _

_Cactus  
_ _Setting: “Popping Cherry”_

* * *

Ah, perfect. Weak as shit coffee. Nice round off to a fucked up day.

I head back to my desk. It's just about shift end and a lot of the guys have already taken off. The big raid on Tucci's place is tomorrow morning, and for the cops who are on this investigation there's nothing to do until then. Not that there couldn't be something else. LaGuerta was completely uninterested in what I got from my contacts this morning. We haven't even searched the guy's place yet and already she's convinced we've got the guy.

It's annoying.

I sit down and close the initial report on the hockey area scene. The results of the autopsy on Sherry Taylor will be in tomorrow. Last I heard she was still in processing. The thought of Cherry's body parts being passed around like loaves of bread or something is disturbing. I can't say I knew her well enough to feel any real grief for her, but I guess it's like learning someone you used to work with got in a car accident and died. It's hard to marry those two disparate images of the same person.

I take another sip of crappy coffee. I wonder if whoever made this just didn't bother changing out the filter.

“We're heading home,” Batista says, coming to a stop by my desk. Doakes is with him. “You going soon?”

I set down the cup. “Few minutes, yeah.”

Doakes nods as he looks at me, then his gaze slips down to my desk and his brows crinkle. “What the hell is that?”

I look down at Dexter's random gift. The cactus. I'm not really sure what made him think of me when he saw it. Maybe it was a gift with purchase and he needed someone to pawn it off on. “It's Masuka's new dildo,” I say. “I'm holding it for him.”

Both of them snort. “Smart-ass,” Doakes says.

“What've you been working on over here?” Batista asks.

“Tucci. You know I met with my old hooker contacts this afternoon? They told me they saw Cherry— Sherry Taylor, getting into a station wagon with wood paneling. But according to the DMV, Tucci doesn't even own a vehicle.”

“Still working the theory that he was abducted?” Batista asks.

“Or worse,” I say.

“Don't get ahead of yourself, Morgan,” Doakes says. “Wait until we see what the search turns up.”

“Yeah, you'll have to tell me,” I lean back, unable to hide the bitterness creeping into my tone. “LaGuerta's desked me during the raid, just in case we get any 'tips.' ”

“Hm,” he grunts. He's the only one around here who truly seems to like LaGuerta, even though out of everyone here he has the most legitimate reason to hate her. Two or three days into me starting here he told me he was her old partner until she got her promotion, and I can't help but wonder how he feels about that. I remember hearing the buzz about that big bust they made because it was a big deal for Narcotics too, and Narcotics and Vice are the biggest buttbudies out of all the departments in the MDPD. There was a lot of speculation that LaGuerta's role in the investigation had been overblown, and that she hadn't necessarily earned her promotion. Luck and political hard balling got her that office even though Doakes had been slated for it.

Yet he'll always defend her. Maybe he sees a different side to her or something, I don't know.

“Come on,” I say. “I can't be the only one here who thinks that Tucci as the Ice Truck Killer is ridiculous? There's no way he'd leave a body at his place of employment and then flee. He's way too fucking smart for that.”

“Or maybe he's just getting arrogant,” Doakes says.

I shake my head. “No, this wouldn't be arrogant. It'd be retarded. We weren't on scene five minutes before his name came up. If this guy wanted to be identified he would've done something a lot splashier, not stick a chick in home goal and flee the city.”

He shifts. “Yeah, I admit I don't like Tucci for this either.”

“See? Same fucking page. Batista?”

The other detective shrugs. “I would be surprised if he didn't turn out to be a victim.”

“So I'm not crazy.” I glance behind them, at LaGuerta's office. She's not there: left fifteen minutes ago. “Then why is LaGuerta gunning so hard for this guy?”

“Matthews has been pressuring her to find a suspect,” Batista says. “Five victims that we know of in five months, and not a single suspect? I mean, we haven't had so much as a blip on our radar until today.”

“Doesn't it matter to her that she's totally off base on this one?”

“I'll remind you we still haven't searched his place,” Doakes says. “We may not have anything on him, but we don't have anything to exonerate him either.”

“Fine,” I throw up my hands. “I just hope that when we don't find anything tomorrow LaGuerta'll be willing to hear other ideas.”

He fixes me with his sour glare. “Do you have any idea how many station wagons there are in Miami?”

I point at my computer, which has the answer but I'm not about to dig for it for some smart-ass reply. “A fuckton and a half, but Tucci's not registered as owning one.”

He continues with the skunk eye. “Doesn't mean he didn't steal one.”

“Then we can focus on stolen station wagons.”

“What if it belonged to one of his victims? He could've taken it from our last Jane Doe.”

“Then we'll comb through surveillance cams near the crime scenes, crack down on getting her ID, hold a fucking séance, I don't know.” I take another sip of the shitty coffee, suddenly remembering it's there.

He shakes his head. “You have a fucking answer to everything.”

I grin at him, “I know I'm right about this.”

He searches my face for a second, then exhales. “Was I ever this fucking green, Angel?”

Batista grins. “I always assumed you were born with a shield pinned to your dick.”

Now he gets the look. “I'm going home.”

“Okay,” he's still grinning. “See you tomorrow.”

“Night,” I call after him as he stalks away, goes through the door to the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.

“I think he's warming up to you,” Batista says to me.

“Just hold on while I brush the ice off my shirt,” I say, then finish off the coffee. The last swallow just tastes like... gross water basically. I make a face and put it down.

“Still, reserve judgment until the facts are in,” he says. “The story fits the evidence, not the other way around.”

Something sarcastic springs up my throat, but I swallow it. “I'd be happy to be wrong,” I say instead.

“For our sakes, I hope you are.” He adjusts his hat. “And with that, I'm going home too. Want to share the elevator?”

“No,” I say. “I'm gonna wash this out,” I waggle the mug, “finish up here first.”

“Then I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yep,” I get up, still holding the mug. For a moment I watch him walk away, then I head for the sink.

Batista's right: I shouldn't be making any assumptions. But I can feel this one in my gut, and I don't need to wait for the raid to know that Tucci's a victim, not a killer. It wouldn't surprise me at all if the boys knocked down the door and found his body in the kitchen with his throat slit.

That would make for a shitty, tasteless time for an I-told-you-so, but at this point I just want LaGuerta to have to concede to me, at least once.

I give my mug a quick rinse.

I guess we'll see tomorrow. For now I've got dinner to pick up and beer waiting for me in the fridge.

And... I glance back at my desk. Apparently a cactus to find a home for.


	19. Chain of Command

_ _

_Chain of Command  
_ _Setting: “Popping Cherry”_

* * *

I blow out smoke, falling back against the concrete. This alley is one of the most pointless, claustrophobic areas I've ever seen— only just too far apart for me to be able to touch both walls between the buildings at once —which is probably why no one's ever out here, but it's the best place for a smoke break if you don't want anyone to see you.

And right now I don't.

( _“Your father never would've pulled the kind of shit you just did...”_ )

Right for the fucking jugular. I can't remember the last time I felt so ashamed of myself, and even despite it I still don't feel like I was in the wrong. I shouldn't have gone to Matthews with the tape. I knew it wasn't the right call, that it was a major breech of the command structure, but I didn't know what else to do. LaGuerta hasn't been willing to listen to a single word I've had to say on this investigation. She's gearing up to pour half the department's manpower into tracking someone who's likely already dead, permanently fucking his memory, and probably fucking us too once the real Ice Truck Killer surfaces again. Yes, it's just a look off camera and a statement from a hooker; anyone could brush them off. But even without them it's stunningly obvious that Tucci isn't our guy. Why would he leave a tape of him setting up the body just lying around his house? Why would he choose to dump her in a way that left him so open to suspicion? His crime scenes are so meticulous that he's gotta be a massive control freak, and nothing about the fallout from Sherry's crime scene has been neat or controlled. Unless it is, because he's framing Tucci in order to draw us further off the right track, just to jerk us around even more.

Successfully.

I take another drag.

I was wanting to tell all this to Matthews. I was hoping he would want to hear my theory. But it was a stupid thing to do. I let myself believe that he'd cut me some slack since we have so much history, and since he already did me a favor in getting me into this department to begin with, but instead I probably just added weight to LaGuerta's insistence that I don't have enough experience to work Homicide.

So my only option is to what then? Sit around and keep my mouth shut as LaGuerta wastes our time and energy on Tucci? She hasn't even bothered giving me an individual assignment on the manhunt. My directions are basically to help man the tip lines once they go live.

Maybe if I asked Batista to talk to her... or maybe if I got Doakes on board...

No. I can't keep skulking around, and I can't keep trying to subvert her. I'll have to carry out her bullshit assignment, prove I can be a team player and that I can take directions. I don't know how much damage I did today, but I need to make sure LaGuerta doesn't get any more ammunition.

I take one last, long pull, drop the cig and grind it out.

Then I turn and grab the door.

Matthews is passing through the hall as I come in. Before I can decide how to arrange my face he's giving me a nod. “Debra,” he says, then keeps on walking.

“Sir,” I say.

For a second I just stand here, not entirely sure if I read anything in that tone. He looks pleased about something, but whatever it is it's probably got nothing to do with me. He doesn't seem angry, so that's a good sign. I think.

Feeling marginally insecure, I make my way back to the pen. LaGuerta's door is shut and she's busy scribbling away at her desk. After a beat I walk over to Batista's desk. “What's going on?” I ask him.

“LaGuerta's going ahead with her press conference and her manhunt,” Batista says. “Apparently she got Jeb Bush to sign off on it.”

“Shit is she gonna have egg on her face,” I mutter.

“You show her the tape?” he asks.

“No, not yet,” I say. “Might try my luck in a minute though.” I glance back toward her office. “What do you think? Right after she cancels her press conference do you think she'd toss in a blow job?”

He grins, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

I walk back to my desk, look at down at the VHS (who even uses VHS anymore?). I know all this is gonna earn me is a boot print on my ass, but I can't help myself. I have to try. Matthews expects me to follow chain of command on this, and if I don't at least present my case it'll bother me for weeks.

Exhaling, I pick up the tape, head for LaGuerta's office. Deciding to just bite the bullet, I don't allow myself to hesitate before knocking. I see her look up through the glass, and an expression flickers across her face that I can only interpret as exasperation. But she waves me in.

“Yes, Officer Morgan?” she says. She always has to emphasize my rank. But I guess it's better than this morning's 'Miss Morgan.'

“I wanted to talk to you about Tucci,” I say, walking in. “I think—”

“Officer, all due respect, but you're new to Homicide.” She folds her hands on her blotter.

“That doesn't mean—” I try again.

“So forgive me if I don't put a lot of stock in your opinion. There are a lot of cops working this case. You want to tell me why I should elevate your theory?”

“Maybe because I have evidence.” I waggle the VHS, trying to keep a firm lid on the anger brewing in my chest.

“What's that?”

“The tape you found in Tucci's house,” I say.

“How could that possibly help your case?”

“If you'd be willing to watch it again with me I can show you.”

She studies me for a second. I don't know what she's thinking or what she's looking for, but it annoys me that she refuses to even consider what I have to say.

“Fine,” she says finally, and to my immense surprise.

I blink. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Present your evidence.”

Feeling slightly stunned, I stutter, “Yeah, okay, I'll go get the TV.”

“I'll be here.”

I quickly leave the office, trying to process what she just said.

“Well?” Batista asks from his desk.

I look at him, “She's willing to see the tape again, That's something, right?”

He shrugs.

I go for the TV, which is still sitting where I left it.

I don't know what the hell just happened but I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth. If she's willing to at least listen to me, that's something.

Now the bigger problem is getting her to believe me.

Setting the VHS on top of the player, I grab the stand and start wheeling it out.


	20. Whore

_ _

_Whore  
_ _Setting: “Popping Cherry”_

* * *

Fuck do I not miss this. The humidity, the clash of at least six different boomboxes, the smell of roast chicken and smog and marijuana and urine. The tension is constant, and it feels heavier than I remember it. The last time I was out here at this hour I was dressed as a prostitute, which in some ways made me invisible. Ironically enough, in my normal clothes I'm a lot more exposed, and everyone here has definitely noticed the bulge of my piece under my hoodie. I don't know how obvious I am, but at the least it's probably clear that I'm not here for the same reason everyone else is.

Though if I'm honest, I'm not sure what I'm doing here. I know the likelihood of me running across the station wagon is about on par with me winning the lotto, but I couldn't just sit at home. After a day of taking calls from random whackjobs, I want to feel like I'm actually doing something. I knew LaGuerta's “I'll think about it” yesterday was her way of saying fuck off, but until I saw the press conference this morning I guess I'd been holding onto a shred of hope that she might actually have listened to me...

I don't know why I let myself get so naive.

This is the last place outside of the crime scene where we know the Ice Truck Killer was. I know I won't find a witness besides Gabrielle, and I know there aren't any cams, and I know in my heart that he won't be coming back, but I'm here anyway. Sheer luck got me the ice truck. Maybe the bitch'll smile on me again, even though this time I know I can't call patrol in. It was one thing to look for an ice truck, but to look for a wood paneled station wagon is far too vague an order. Hell, I already found one and it was just a couple old folks inside.

And yet, and yet...

I keep walking deeper up 17th Ave, past the dollar store and the San Lorenzo Food Market, past a bunch of hookers and potheads and Johns. The scene is familiar in a way I wish it wasn't. I wonder how Dad would've felt knowing how much time I spent on this street and streets just like it.

I don't see anyone I know though. I'm not sure where Raquelle's little group is. Maybe the news about Cher spooked them and the girls decided to move to some other corner, I don't know. I hope for their sakes that some of them decided to flee. Maybe it could even be a catalyst to get them out of the life. They could take a chance that Cherry never got, finally pursue one of the plans they're always talking about. I'd like them to go for more selfish reasons: I just don't particularly want to recognize anyone else who's been killed, sectioned into pieces, and displayed for all of Miami to see.

I stop at an intersection as a car passes, then start forward again. The sound of footsteps behind me draws me out of my thoughts, and before my foot's even touched the opposite pavement there's suddenly a hand on my arm.

I whirl, wrench my elbow away. A “What the fuck?” falls out of my mouth.

“Hey,” the guy says. He's so close I can smell his breath, and it smells like a dumpster full of dog shit and dead animals. “How much?”

I step away from him. “Fuck off.”

He moves in front of me, and I stop again. He looks sort of familiar: one of the Johns who was always hanging around the area, I think.

“I know you,” he says. “You're one of Raquelle's whores. How much?”

“Would you like to get arrested? Get the fuck out of my way.” I shove past him. I make it about five steps before he grabs my arm again, wrenches me around.

“I'm not going to ask again, bitch.”

I forcefully reclaim my arm. Before I can decide whether to pull out my badge or my gun, a new voice calls out:

“Hey, you heard her, fuck off.”

I glance back to see Shanda walking toward me from what looks like an apartment complex up the street.

The John looks from me to her, then mumbles something and shoves past me. I watch him walk away as Shanda comes to a stop beside me.

“What're you doing out here, Brandy?” she asks, her gaze flicking from the John's retreating back to me.

“I told you, my name's Debra,” I say. “And I'm fine.”

“Debra,” she says. “And you didn't look fine. Lucky I was here to rescue you.”

“The only person you were rescuing was him.” I point.

“Right, coz you're a cop.”

“That's right.” I start walking again.

“That what you're doing here?” She follows me. “Looking to bust up some more motherfuckers looking for somewhere to stick it?”

“No. I've got much bigger fish to fry.”

She pauses, then comes back into step with me. “You really think that ice truck psycho's gonna come back here?”

I shrug. “I don't know. Do you remember anything more about him?”

She shakes her head. “No. Gabby's the one who saw Cherry get into the car with him, not me.”

“Great,” I say, continuing to scan for station wagons, but of course there's still nothing.

She's silent for a second, then, “You know, even if he's not out here tonight, this isn't really any place for a ninety pound white chick to be wandering around by herself.”

“I can take care of myself,” I say.

“Yeah, so can the rest of us, until we can't.”

“Most of you aren't cops.”

“Wasn't there just some cop who got himself killed by gangbangers and thrown off the causeway? That badge's not some magic shield, chica.”

I stop. “That was a completely different situation,” I say.

“You're still as human as the rest of us,” she pokes my shoulder in emphasis. “You told us to leave town yet here you are, walking down this shitty fucking street in the middle of the night hoping to find a serial killer. If that's not crazy I don't know what is.”

I'm starting to get annoyed (maybe because she's right), “If it's crazy for me to be here, then why haven't you left?”

She shrugs. “I got a kid to feed. I got _me_ to feed. As long as that piece of shit's around I just won't get into any station wagons, you know?”

I don't know.

“Come on, chica,” she continues, “you've got a life outside this shithole, unlike the rest of us. Let me walk you back to your car.”

“I don't fucking need a escort,” I say.

“Then I'll keep you company,” she says. “Tell you what? I'll keep an eye out myself, ask the girls to do the same. If we see any station wagons we'll give you a call. You got any cards or whatever?”

I just stare at her. I can't believe she's trying to protect me. Maybe she still sees me as Brandy, the pathetic whore from Unincorporated Miami-Dade with dead parents and no family or income or education. We've known each other for eight or nine months but most of what she knows about me was a lie I invented under the KISS principle (the less complicated, the less you have to remember).

“Well?” she prompts.

“Yeah, I have cards,” I say. “In my car.”

“Great, let's go.” She grabs my wrist and tugs me forward. I allow her to lead me, though thankfully once I follow she lets go.

“It's a real shame about Cher,” she says as we walk. “I liked her.”

“Yeah, I did too.” It bothers me still that I didn't recognize her.

“You see her body?”

“Yeah,” I nod.

She glances at me. “That's fucked up.”

I exhale, “It was.”

“What a shitty fucking way to go.” She digs in a pocket, produces a cigarette. “You still smoke, or was that bullshit too?”

I look at the thin, white stick, and suddenly I want one more than anything. “No, that part was true.”

“Great.” She feels around her pockets. “You got a light?”

I nod. “You got an extra one of those?”

She hands me hers and pulls another out as I dig into a pocket, produce an orange bic. We stop for a second to light up together, and I close my eyes as the hit hits my lungs.

She blows out smoke. “So how long you been a cop, Debra?”

“Deb,” I correct automatically and start walking again. “Five years.”

She keeps pace. “Shit.”

“I just got bumped out of Vice,” I say. “That's why I'm not still standing around here with you.”

“Glad to see you again either way,” she says. “When you disappeared, for all we knew you were dead, maybe even chopped up by that sick of piece of shit you're hunting now.”

“Well, I'm fine,” I say. It's weird to know that any of them gave a shit about me, that they even noticed. Then again, in a lot of ways Shanda and her girls were more my coworkers than Lorenzo and the rest were. For one, they were the ones I saw every day, not my fellow cops, and I probably spent more time on this street in the last several months than I did in my own cubicle.

Suddenly I realize we've reached my car.

“This is it,” I say, stopping.

She looks down at the hood. “Not bad.” She taps off her cig. “Better than my fucking '94 Toyota, I'll tell you that.”

“It's got four wheels,” I say, then pull out my keys and tap unlock. “Need a lift?”

“No,” she says. “My night's just starting, chica.”

It doesn't feel right to leave her out here. “You sure?”

“Like I told you, I was here before that prick and I'll be here after. And this is my fucking neighborhood.” She seems to see me hesitate, blows out smoke. “Get out of here. Don't worry about me.”

“Alright,” I say, heading for my car door.

As I open it she says, “Just be careful. I probably won't be around to pull your skinny ass out of trouble next time.”

“I was never _in_ trouble,” I say.

“If you say so,” she smiles at me like she's talking to a five year old. “Night, Deb.”

“Night, Shanda,” I say.

She waves and turns to walk away.

I start up the car, flick on the lights, roll down the windows. Take one last pull on the cigarette, then flick it out of the car.

I can't believe I'm getting coddled by a whore.

And... fuck, I forgot to give her my card.


	21. Saturday Morning

_ _

_Saturday Morning  
_ _Setting: “Let's Give the Boy a Hand”_

* * *

My shoes slap into hard-packed dirt, my earbuds bounce in my ears, every breath tastes like warm air and cut grass and dust. I don't know how long I've been running but I've reached the point where I can barely feel my body anymore. Every forward stride keeps me rolling with the inertia. It seems like it'd be harder to stop than to just keep going.

It feels great. I can't hold a thought longer than a few seconds. They keep slipping away, somewhere between my breath and the bassline in my ears. It's nice to feel so present, like nothing else in the world exists. Because I think too much. I'm way too in my head.

It's early morning Saturday. I decided to go out before it gets too hot. I don't think it's supposed to get above 80 but with the humidity it always feels like running against jello.

Not sure what my weekend holds for me. At the moment it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters except this.

So I breathe, keep on moving forward, right into a bright patch of sunlight.


	22. Sunday Morning

_ _

_Sunday Morning  
_ _Setting: “Let's Give the Boy a Hand”_

* * *

I toss the crumpled bagel wrapper from breakfast and an old paper cup that I think I left in the car Friday into a trash can as I head out of the parking lot for the beach.

It's Sunday. I'm not even on duty today, but when Batista called me I rolled right out of bed. A severed hand on a beach. It's gotta be the Ice Truck Killer— the real Ice Truck Killer. It's been almost a whole week of nothing. He's been quiet since he did whatever he did to Tucci. LaGuerta's been using that as evidence for her crusade, saying to us and the media that we've got him on the run, but ever since she called her press conference I've been waiting for another body to surface. There was no way that fuck would let some rent a cop claim his title for too long. He only wanted us chasing our tails long enough for him to plan whatever he was doing in peace.

And now here we are.

I slip and slide over the sand as I head for the knot of cops gathered by what looks like a lounge chair and an umbrella, gravitating naturally towards the one with the hat and Hawaiian shirt. I'm so glad Batista thought to call me. If I'd heard about this first on the news I think my head would've exploded all over my couch.

“Hey,” I say, halting awkwardly in the sand. ( _Goddamn boots._ )

“Hey,” Batista says. “You just missed your brother.”

I glance around, as if to make sure of what he said. “He left already?” I ask.

“Yeah. Said he had to grab something from home before he could go in.”

“Hm,” I exhale, losing interest in my brother's activities. My gaze flicks down to the chair. “What've we got?”

He chin-nods. “See for yourself.”

I already am. I feel my mouth fall open as I lean in, staring. “What the fuck?”

“Pretty freaky, right?”

I nod.

It's a hand. Blood from where it was severed has leaked all over a towel, which is draped over a lounge chair. There's a red, plastic bucket and a yellow trowel; a beach ball; an umbrella. And, in the bucket... I take another step forward, lean even closer. “Is that a picture?”

“Yep,” he says. “Here.” He comes in beside me and pulls it out, then holds it up. Since I don't have gloves I just look over his arm.

“What the fuck?” I say again.

It's a polaroid of exactly what we're looking at, from just about where I'm standing: the hand on the chair, palm open, like it's waving hello.

I glance from the picture to the real thing and back again.

“I don't get it,” I say after a beat.

“Don't get what?” he asks.

“This,” I make an all-encompassing gesture. “The picture, the shit for a family outing to the beach. And that...” I look at the hand again, “I'm not a coroner, but that doesn't look like it came from a woman. And it's bloody. What happened to the fucking liquid nitrogen? After five crime scenes without a speck of blood why would he suddenly leave us this?”

“We're all asking the same questions,” Batista says. “We've already got prints en route to the lab. If whoever this hand belongs to is in the system, we should be hearing back any minute now.”

“Whoever?” I repeat. I look from the hand to the picture again. “What if this is Tucci's hand?”

“Tucci?” he says.

“Tucci.” I cross my arms. “I know you're not drinking LaGuerta's Kool-Aid anymore than me. We both know Tucci was a victim, but his body never surfaced. What if that's because the real Ice Truck Killer was keeping it to do this?” I pause. “Whatever this is.”

He nods, looking from me to the hand, “I admit, I was thinking the same thing.”

“LaGuerta's gonna shit a fucking brick if we're right,” I can't help grinning. “Jesus fuck, all the manpower she's wasted...”

“Hey,” he stops me. “We don't know anything for sure yet. We still don't have any evidence that Tucci _isn't_ the Ice Truck Killer.”

“Not yet,” I murmur. “How long has this been here?”

“Your brother estimated a couple hours.”

“That arrogant shitcake...” I shake my head. “He set all this up in broad daylight. He's fucking with us.”

“Well, maybe he slipped up,” Batista swivels slightly, and I follow his gaze to all the lookiloos beyond the tape. “With all the people around, maybe somebody saw something.”

“Wouldn't that be peachy,” I mutter.

He nods, but before either of us can say anything else a new voice is shouting, “Angel.” We both look over to see Doakes standing in the parking lot. “Come here,” he says, gesturing us over. His eyebrows dip as we make eye contact, and I glance at Batista before we both make our way away from the hand.

“Morgan, what're you doing here?” Doakes says in greeting when we reach him.

“Good morning to you too,” I say. “Batista called me.”

“Hm,” he grunts.

I probably shouldn't ask but I'm curious. “What're you doing here? I thought Batista was working the Ice Truck Killer.”

He fixes me with his skunk eye. “With the Simmons case closed, I'm being moved onto this.”

“You've got something?” Batista asks before I can ask what that means for us.

“Yeah, I've got something. Our print results came in. That,” he points at the lounge chair, “belongs to Tony Tucci.”

( _Shit._ )

It's horrible but I can't stop a grin. “You're shitting me,” I say.

“Don't look so fucking pleased with yourself, Morgan,” Doakes growls. He looks at Batista. “This case just got a lot higher profile. The press is going to be crawling up our asses once we release this, and now we're back to having shit all on a suspect.”

He nods.

“I've gotta call the lieutenant, see how she wants us to proceed. CNN's already setting up outside. Pretty soon half the fucking morning line-up's gonna be waiting for a statement.” He glances at me with a weird look on his face. “You planning to stick around?” he asks me, though I have a feeling that's not what he wanted to say.

“You kidding?” I say.

He does this sort of half nod, then pulls out his phone. “I'll be back in a minute,” he says, walking away.

Batista watches him go. I turn around and look at the hand again.

I can feel my excitement level rising. This past week has felt like a constant battle of wills between me and LaGuerta. After her press release I kept my mouth closed, watching her make an endless amount of appearances on the news reassuring the city that we're going to find Tucci and crucify him. She's so fucking desperation for attention she ran straight to the cameras the second we had a name— any name —to give to the public. But now she's really stepped in it. Matthews is gonna take a chunk out of her ass the size of the moon and serve it to her. And the best part is he knows she ignored me...

“The Captain's gonna be pissed,” Batista remarks. “If we have the results, you know they already landed on his desk.”

“He's probably tearing her a new asshole as we speak,” I finish his thought, feeling practically giddy about it. “Fuck, I wish I was there.”

“You don't want to be in LaGuerta's crosshairs when she's pissed,” he says. “Trust me. It's better you're here, especially if she saw that shit-eating grin on your face.”

“I'm sorry, but I can't fucking help it,” I say, smoothing hair behind my ear. “She's shut down every theory I've had on this case, and every time I've come up correct— the ice truck, Tucci. Maybe after this she'll fucking finally decide to listen to me.” I blow out a breath, suddenly craving a cigarette. “Even if she won't it's nice to know that for once I'm not gonna be the only one getting shit on.”

He adjusts his glasses. “Yeah, LaGuerta's had it coming on this case.”

I lean in, “Admit it, you'd love to watch the smack down just as much as me.”

A grin pulls at his lips. “I don't think anyone wants it as much as you.”

“Fucking got that right.”

“Angel,” Doakes' voice cuts through again, and we both look back to see him walking toward us. “Can I talk to you?”

“Sure,” Batista says. “I'll be back in a minute,” he says to me.

I watch him walk to Doakes, trying not to feel suspicious at being excluded. I have to keep reminding myself that everyone still sees me as green, and, of course, I _am_ green. I haven't been on Homicide that long at all yet; haven't even learned everybody's names (though at least the rumors about me and Matthews seem to have gone away already... haven't heard anything in days). If they have to discuss something then it's probably none of my fucking business anyway.

I walk out, back onto the beach and back under the sun. There's something familiar about it, comforting. Before Mom died we used to come out to a beach, any beach, pretty much every weekend. Dad wasn't so much into beaches, but we still would occasionally come out. And, I mean, it's Miami: a date on the beach, an evening run, dinner. Who knows, maybe I have been here before. At any rate, the crime scene and the press can't really corrupt it.

I take a breath of ocean air. I'm still grinning about this whole situation.

Is it fucked? Sure. Finding out that Tucci's dead and dismembered is not happy news, and I shouldn't be smiling about it, but then again his body parts are only confirming what I already knew. The Ice Truck Killer couldn't have come up with a better way of telling us what he thinks of us buying into his frame job. Why the hand, I don't know. There's something so strangely friendly about it in the picture, like it's waving hello, inviting us to the beach. Maybe it's his way of inviting us to pull our heads out of our asses.

But where's the rest of Tucci's body?

Why _just_ a hand?

Fuck if I know...

I turn from the ocean to see Doakes and Batista walking back onto the sand.

But we're going to find out, and I'm going to be there when we do.

I jog over to catch up to them just as Batista separates from him. If they're done talking then I want to know what I get to do to help.

And also if LaGuerta's still got all her limbs.


	23. At Shift End

_ _

_At Shift End  
_ _Setting: “Let's Give the Boy a Hand”_

* * *

I click my pen in and toss it onto my desk, then roll my neck and pull all my hair over one shoulder. Last bit of paperwork on this morning's interviews done. Aside from encroaching carpal tunnel, our investigations today gave us exactly zilch.

Not that I was really expecting any different, to be honest. If anyone had seen the Ice Truck Killer, then they're probably dead too. He's so careful with his crime scenes I doubt he'd be too lenient on a witness if one were to somehow stumble across him. And then there was the afternoon re-toss of Tucci's place, this time searching for evidence left behind from the frame. Of course there was nothing there either.

I check my watch, leaning back. Shift ends in a half hour.

Hm.

I push up from my desk, decide to walk over to Dexter's station to see what he's up to. Masuka leers at me as I approach. “Looking for company tonight?” he asks.

“Sorry, I've got gonorrhea,” I say.

He continues grinning, “No problem. I've got something for that.” Then he's leaning down and opening his cabinet. When I glance over the door I can see that he's got a whole pharmaceutical collection in there— at least twenty little bottles, orange, green, white.

My gaze flicks up to meet his, and I just look at him for a second. “I'm going now,” I say, then head for my brother's office.

I open the door to find him packing up. “Leaving early?” I ask, leaning against the frame.

“What?” he looks up and around until he finds me. “Oh, yeah. Rita and I are going costume shopping.”

“You're dressing up?” That surprises me. Dexter's never been big on celebrating holidays (though, if I'm honest, neither am I).

“No,” he shakes his head. “But Rita invited me to help find something for Astor and Cody. I'm going to go meet her at her place, then we're gonna go out, go shopping, get dinner.”

I can't help feeling slightly jealous. “Sounds nice,” I say.

“Yeah, it will be.”

For a second I wonder how whiny it would sound to say I've got no plans, for tonight or for Halloween. But I decide to just keep it to myself. “You got anything new on the hand?” I ask instead.

He shakes his head. “Same as what I told you earlier. It's totally clean.”

“But you're sure when it came off Tucci was alive?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he zips up his bag.

“So he died this morning,” I repeat what I've been saying to myself since he told us just after lunch. “Why would the Ice Truck Killer have kept him alive all this time?”

Dexter shrugs, “I don't know.”

“And why just the hand? And what's with the blood?”

Another shrug, “I don't know.”

I try to capture his eyes. “So you don't have any theories?”

He shakes his head. “Afraid not.”

I cross my arms. “Come on. Work with me here. LaGuerta's got her ass in a sling and if I can come up with anything while she's down I can rub it in.”

He looks up from his bag as he shoves something inside another flap. “I'm not sure that's a healthy way of looking at this.” _Ziiiiiiiiiip._ “And I don't have anything for you, Deb. The hand's clean. I don't know why he kept him alive. Maybe he was just trying to figure out what to do with him until today.”

“And what he decided on was leaving us his hand on a lounge chair on a beach? With a postcard?”

He shrugs for the umpteenth time, gives me a look of 'I have no idea.'

“Fine,” I say. “Be that way.”

“What way?” he asks.

“Unhelpful,” I say. “Go. Have fun with Rita and the kids. Say hello for me.”

“I will,” he says, pauses. “I notice you didn't say you have any plans for Halloween.”

“Just another day,” I shrug. “And I'm on shift.”

“You should go out. Have a life. It would be good for you.”

Yeah, no thanks. “What would be good for me is catching a break on this psycho douchepail. My life can wait.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder. “If you say so, sister.”

“I say so,” I say, backing up so he can get by me.

“Night, Deb,” he says as he passes.

“Yeah, night,” I reply. I can't decide if I'm annoyed with him or not as I watch him walk away. I can theorize all by myself: I don't really need him for that. I think maybe my feelings have more to do with the fact that he has plans and someone to go home to and I don't. But I can't fault him for making better choices in his relationship than I do in mine. That would be petty, and wrong, since I'm half at fault for all my fuck ups.

“So no plans with Dextrous?” Masuka slithers up to me.

I glance at him and sigh. “Fuck off, Masuka.”

I can hear him doing that weird giggle as I get away from him. Still trolling for conversation, I stop by Batista's desk.

“So,” I say when he doesn't look up from a report he's reading. “What're you doing Halloween? Your daughter still trick-or-treat?”

He looks up, brightening at the mention of her. “Yeah,” he says. “Auri loves dressing up. Her favorite holiday besides Christmas.”

“Yeah, what kid wouldn't love it? Candy and costumes.” I exhale. “You dressing up too?”

He shakes his head, “Nah. I'm too old for that shit, you know?”

I nod. I think Halloween stopped meaning anything to me by the time I was 8. The last few have just turned into playing dress-up in the bedroom, and, really, the fun in that is taking the costume _off_...

“Besides, it's also my anniversary,” Batista says, dragging me back to focus.

“You proposed on Halloween?” I ask.

“No,” he shakes his head. “It's the anniversary of the day we met. We met at a Halloween party. I saw her on the other side of the bar and I knew I was in love.”

“Aw, that's so sweet,” I say. “How many years?”

“Ten,” he grins proudly.

“Get the fuck out of town,” I lightly punch his shoulder.

“What about you?” he says. “Got any plans?”

“I'll probably be here,” I say. “If I'm home somebody might knock on my door.”

“I'll steal you a Kit-Kat,” he says.

“And that's why you're my new best friend,” I grin at him, then look over at Doakes. “Hey, Sergeant,” I say. “You got any plans for Halloween?”

He glances at me, “Fuck off, Morgan.” Then right back down to his papers.

“You know, he says that,” I say to Batista, “but I'm growing on him, I can tell.”

“The only thing growing is the fucking mold between your ears,” Doakes mutters.

I glance at him, then exchange a grin with Batista.

“You done with your reports?” Doakes adds.

“Yep,” I say.

“Then where are they?”

I move from Batista's desk to mine, where I grab the stack of papers. I straighten it out against the desk, then walk over to Doakes. “Here you are, Grumpy,” I say, holding it out.

He glares at me, but I can tell that somewhere deep down below his general hatred of everything he's starting to like me.

Deep, deep down. Like way the fuck down there.

He takes the pages with a grunt.

I drift back over to Batista's desk. “Bet I know what LaGuerta'll be doing for the next few days,” I say, looking at the lieutenant through the glass. Her door is shut, and she's scribbling away at something on her desk, like she's been doing all day. “Applying balm to her ass for the chunk the Captain took out of it.”

Batista snorts.

“I can't wait to hear her statement to the press,” I continue. “Bet I'll be able to catch it on the 10 o'clock news. Wonder if she'll make the front page...”

“That's enough, Morgan,” Doakes interrupts me. “If you're done here, why don't you follow your brother? You weren't even supposed to be on shift today.”

I turn to him as Batista looks back down at his report. “Hey, I've got nothing waiting for me at home. I'm in no hurry to leave.”

“Lucky us,” he says.

“Damn right,” I say, then walk back to my desk and plop into my chair.

It's true. Technically I should be home right now, but for whatever reason LaGuerta agreed to my overtime request, so I am on shift for a little longer, and I don't really feel like leaving yet anyway. The traffic between here and my apartment will take half my life to get through, and once I get there all I've got is a frozen meal and an empty apartment to look forward to. At least here there're other people to talk to, and there's an endless amount of free, shitty coffee to drink.

Just as I think this I see a group of five guys heading from the break room, all chatting away: Yale, Soderquist, Ramos, Bililoc, Lopez. They wave to Batista as they walk through in the direction of the elevator, but none of them look at me. I haven't entered their circle yet. If they're going out together then theoretically this could be a good time to try to break into it, but something about the thought seems totally exhausting, so I don't move or say anything as they pass.

I just pull my hair to one shoulder again.

I wish we had a lead to chase, something for me to focus on. Right now we still only have 'wood-paneled station wagon,' and scrolling through the DMV database for it endlessly hasn't been helpful. A few days ago I ran it against missing persons, going with Doakes' theory that maybe he was using our Jane Doe's car, but so far there's no MP report on anyone resembling her, and no one who matched her general description owned a station wagon. I'm starting to think she'll never get IDed, and that we probably won't end up finding the car either.

And that just sucks.

Though I'm sure even we did ID her there'd be no one to claim her body...

I let the thought go, decide to check my email. A few clicks, a few moments of waiting, and I'm in. But there's nothing. Not even spam.

I close out the window.

I should've followed Ramos and the rest out. I bet they're going out to catch a drink, and a drink sounds nice. On the other hand, the tension doesn't. I'm so new I'm sure I'm still being categorized, and I probably need to strengthen my reputation before I go out drinking with the boys. (Because that's all I need, more rumors.) There will always be other nights, since I'm not planning on going anywhere. As far into the future as I want to look, I see myself in this department.

I tap my fingers against my blotter, decide to grab some coffee.

For tonight I'll just wait out my shift, go home, crack open a beer or two, catch LaGuerta's press conference (would that be popcorn worthy?), eat my shitty dinner. Who knows what tomorrow will be bring.

Right now there's coffee, and that's good enough.

 


	24. A New Assignment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Corrected a minor detail (canonical error) about where the foot was severed.

_ _

_A New Assignment_

_Setting: “Let's Give the Boy a Hand”_

* * *

Forty minutes in and already I want to throw myself off the roof.

I jiggle my leg against the TV, staring at the screen. I'm not sure if I'm being paranoid or not in thinking that LaGuerta did this to me deliberately just to torture me. It's bullshit that techs couldn't do this— analyzing security footage is one of the things they're trained to do —and if this was so important that she needs a cop to do it then I wouldn't be stuck in here alone. Maybe she overheard me yesterday when I was celebrating all the mud on her face (I really need to keep my mouth shut...). Or maybe this is her way of keeping me busy and off any real police work.

Speaking of which...

I stab the pause button on the VHS machine as I spot Batista coming in with Dexter, who's holding a white cooler, his bag slung over a shoulder. “Hey,” I say, opening the door. They both stop and look at me, then glance between themselves, as if asking each other which one I'm talking to. “Batista,” I say to clarify, “what the fuck?”

Dexter gestures toward his office. “I'm gonna start analysis.”

He makes his escape as I walk over to Batista. “What happened?” I ask. “Doakes came in earlier, said he came from the new crime scene. Am I getting benched?”

He shrugs, “Sorry, LT's orders. You saw the news?”

“Yeah,” I cross my arms. I listened to it last night and this morning as I was getting ready. “It's a fucking shit storm.”

“And we're right in the center of it. I'm thinking LaGuerta wants to move our most senior detectives onto this to prove we're putting all our resources into catching this guy.”

“So that leaves me watching security feeds,” I sigh.

He glances over my shoulder at the TV. “Security feeds?”

“From cameras around the crime scenes.” I flip my hand, shove it back under my arm.

From the look on his face I can pretty much guess what he's thinking. “There'll be another break,” he says. “Just do your duty and get through this and before you know it you'll be on scene again.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave it off. “Can you at least tell me about the scene? All I keep hearing is something about a foot and a soccer ball.”

“Your brother's got all the pictures. And the foot,” he says. “Might want to just go see for yourself.” He pauses, gestures behind himself, “I've gotta go talk to Doakes.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say. As he walks over to the sergeant I decide to take his advice, go over to Dexter's station. I find my brother as he's plugging his camera into his computer. Within a moment a little pop-up window appears, and Dexter clicks through a few screens until a picture of what looks like a small green space near a river pops up. On a bench in the center of the shot is a foot in a cleat next to a soccer ball.

“Can I have a look?” I say as he begins tapping through them.

He glances over his shoulder. “Where were you this morning?”

“Don't ask,” I reply, approaching. I look at the cooler on the opposite side of his desk from me, knowing what's in there and curious to see it.

“Okay,” he says. Sometimes I wish he wouldn't just let everything go like that, but right now I'm more interested in his pictures than in complaining.

“Tell me about the scene,” I say.

“You're looking at it,” he says, punching through the shots. “Right foot, severed straight through the tibia and fibula, just above the ankle.” He traces the cut with his finger. “Probably male, from the shoe size. The blood pooling suggests the foot was in the cleat when it was,” he makes a whistling sound, “separated from the body.” He grabs a small, plastic baggie and hands it to me. “This was left under the ball.”

I take it and hold it up. Another polaroid, this time of the foot. It's weird, shot like another postcard, or a memory for a photo album. Something about it gives me the creeps, like cold fingertips running up the base of my neck. This is all just another art piece to him, and this is the angle he wants us to view it from.

“Is it Tucci?” I ask.

He shrugs. “We're running DNA now. Same blood type though. B-positive.”

“It's gotta be him,” I say. I hand him back the picture. “What the fuck is this? A hand at the beach, a foot on a bench in a downtown green space?”

“He's playing with us,” he says, setting the baggie back on his desk. “Wants to know if we can understand his message.”

I look at him. “What do you think the message is?”

He goes back to clicking through shots. “I don't know.”

Since he's not looking at me I go back to looking at his screen. Close ups from every angle: the scene, the blood, the ball, the bench, the trees, Amanda's Fucking Snack Cakes. Whatever the message is, if he wants us to understand it, he's going to have to give us some additional fucking sign posts.

Unless it all won't come together until we've received every last piece of Tucci's corpse.

“Jesus, this fucknut has us by the short hairs,” I say. “He's controlled us every step of the investigation. If this foot gives us nothing then we're just going to continue sitting around with our thumbs up our asses until more body parts come rolling in.” Dexter glances back at me, and I work my jaw. “This was found around 7 again, right?”

He nods, “Right.”

I stare at the picture on screen for a second before meeting his gaze, “How much you wanna bet that tomorrow morning we'll be getting a call about another part showing up?” I exhale, stand up straighter. “Eventually this guy's gonna make a mistake. When he does I can't wait to be there to ruin his fucking day.”

A weird look flickers across Dexter's face, then he smiles, “Glad to see you've gotten so confident since the transfer.”

I grin automatically, make a sweeping gesture over myself, “It's the new fucking me.” I drop my hand, let the grin go with it. “Feel free to interrupt me when you've got any news.”

“Will do.”

I nod, slip out the door and trudge back to the TV. It's still paused just where I left it— at an especially unflattering angle of a man who both resembles and seems to weigh about as much as a beluga. I plop into my chair and find the remote on the floor, then prop my feet against the stand and lean back. Hit x2. The guy feeds his card and seems to fail his pincode twice before giving up and using a new card. He pulls out what looks like at least two hundred bucks, then finally wanders away from the camera's view after crumpling his receipt and throwing it on the pavement.

Beautiful.

I slow back to real-time, staring at the beach at the edge of the camera's view. The crime scene isn't in frame. If this or anything else in that box actually give us anything then I'll volunteer to eat them.

Time passes. Eventually someone else approaches the camera, and I speed up again. It's some little old lady. She clears the ATM quickly, and once again I slow back to real-time.

“Morgan,” a knock on the glass behind me distracts me from the screen, and I look back with a feeling of hope.

Some uniform is standing there, framed in the doorway. I think his name is Pascal, but I really can't remember right now. “Yeah?” I say.

He holds up another box, crushing whatever hope I felt to the bottom of my boots.

“Got these for you,” he says. “From the last ITK crime scene.”

“Just shove them next to the other box,” I gesture at it.

He nods and does what I asked, then flashes me what looks like a sympathy smile before quickly retracting back into the pen, shutting the door as he goes.

I turn back to the screen, glare at the empty street, then throw my arms behind my back.

Fuck me, this is going to be a long day.


	25. Fishbowl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some borrowed dialogue.

_ _

_Fishbowl  
_ _Setting: “Let's Give the Boy a Hand”_

* * *

I adjust in my chair for the thousandth time, continue alternating between squeezing and rolling the remote around my fingers. It's been eight hours of this. I feel like an animal in one of those circus cages, desperate for movement, for something exciting, for something to break the boredom, but there's just nothing except an endless amount of footage and this fucking chair and the tin foil remains of my dinner on the desk. I can still smell the relish and the mustard.

It's just an empty fucking street. Dear, sweet fucking christ, it's not even facing the crime scene. I will never ever see anything here. Even if the killer does drive by, how would I ever know? The resolution's too poor to make out plates or faces anyway...

And I'm the only one on this floor. Everyone else has gone home, probably to dinner and significant others and the hope that Doakes' extra patrol units will find something. I will never find a break here but that isn't stopping my desperation for one.

Then again part of me doesn't want to find anything. LaGuerta gave me this steaming pile of shit, and as petty as it is I don't want to find anything that'll justify all this wasted energy. I want her to admit this is a waste of time and put me back out on the ground, send these tapes to the techs where they belong.

But I doubt she'd ever decide to do that without a push. I've gotta find a lead somehow, someway. There's got to be something somebody missed, but I can't think of anything. The best theory we've got is Dexter's vague as hell 'places that have changed,' but, I mean, fuck, there's barely a square mile of Miami that isn't completely flipped around every few years. But it's all we have.

I jiggle my leg.

If it really is 'change,' then why a fucking office riverwalk that was a soccer field? Why a beach that changed its name? They're both the kinds of places a kid would go. A parent. Is this the Ice Truck Killer working out some childhood trauma? Or am I just reaching for the lowest hanging fruit? That's always the first impulse with any psych profile— pin it on the parents, on a fucked up childhood. But just because it's cliché doesn't mean it's not true...

“Ugh,” I exhale aloud, stopping my leg. I'd kill for a lead. And not just for my sake. If Tucci really is alive... Jesus, he's lost a hand and a foot. Who knows what he's going to lose in the morning. The thought of it is disturbing as fuck, like something out of some really fucked up movie that makes you want to take a shower and volunteer at a soup kitchen just to feel clean again.

I need outside help. I've been thinking that since everyone left and I'm still thinking it now. ( _Fuck, where's my phone?_ )

I grab my bag and shift it toward me, glance up to check the screen (still nothing) before digging around for my phone. When I find it I flip it open expectantly, but there's no response. When I hit the power button it lights up for a moment, then shuts down again.

Dead.

Fucking perfect...

I look around, remembering there's a landline in here. It's sitting right next to the tin foil. I grab it and pull it forward, dial Dexter's number, then set the modem on my knee.

It rings four times before he answers, “Morgan.”

“Save me,” I say.

His breath hits the receiver, “What?”

I adjust the phone, “You've gotta help me find a lead, Dex.” I take a breath, “I will pay you one million dollars if you help me figure out where the next piece of Tucci's gonna show up.”

“I'm afraid I'm lost on this one, Deb,” he says. “It's like it's staring me right in the face, but—”

I cut him off again just to emphasize, “One million dollars.”

He sighs, “You don't have a million dollars.”

The reply is automatic, “I'll steal it from evidence. I've been stuck in a goddamn fishbowl all day. I wanna be part of the hunt.” I exhale, “I'm almost off duty...”

“Sorry, sister,” he says, not sounding particularly sorry at all.

I blow out a breath, “Two million dollars.” He's silent. I keep pushing, “I know you made a list of locations. Just pick your favorite spot; we'll stake it out together.”

Long pause. It sounds like he's doing something in the background. Probably preparing dinner or something.

Asshole.

“Come on,” I prod. “I wanna play.”

Still nothing. Then, “Deb, I gotta go. We'll compare notes tomorrow, okay?”

The line goes dead before I can say anything, or even process what he said.

I pull the phone away. Glare at it.

“Dammit, Dexter,” I say to no one, then set it back in its cradle. I look up at the screen again. Yet more cars, the occasional pedestrian. A black sedan sits at a traffic light, then rolls by. The time stamp reads 7:03.

I shift the phone back onto the desk.

Dexter's list was my best shot. He's the one who came up with the idea so I can only assume he has the best guess as to our next crime scene. I'm still not even entirely sure how he came up with it, and I was hoping maybe he'd be willing to share if I got him alone, away from Doakes and everyone else. Even if none of his locations turned up anything, at least it'd be doing _something_ instead of just sitting here.

But no, he has better things to do. Probably Rita, specifically.

I check my watch again. Twenty minutes.

I can do it.

I cross my legs.

I keep watching, thinking about Tucci. I still can't believe he's alive. He went missing just over a week ago. Where is the killer keeping him? Is he knocking him out before he cuts or did he just strap the poor bastard down so he can saw away as he pleases? Why did he keep him so long before he started doing this? _Why_ is he doing this? Why grab Tucci of all people? Is it just because he was unlucky enough to be there at the wrong time on the wrong day?

What if this _is_ a childhood thing? What if all these dead hookers are his mother, and he's leaving us his metaphorical father in pieces?

Does he want us to save him? Is that why he's still alive and only being cut once a day?

If we're supposed to be getting clues to his location from the polaroids or the crime scenes, then I've got no fucking ideas at all.

Then again, maybe I'm just thinking too much into this, taking my psych classes way too seriously. Maybe the only reason he's keeping him alive and doing this slowly is because it amuses him, and it amuses him to know that we know that Tucci's alive and there's nothing we can do to save him. He's probably getting off on LaGuerta's fuck-up. Who knows, maybe he's even showing all this to Tucci, showing him what incompetent assholes we are just before sawing into him...

I curl my fingers.

I hate feeling so helpless to do anything. Trapped in here, unable to contribute meaningfully to the investigation. But even if I was out there, I still wouldn't have anything to go on.

I glance at the time stamp again.

7:19. The foot had been found by now.

I check my watch again. My shift's basically up, so I might as well stop here.

I reach forward and hit eject. Once the tape spits out I flip the TV off, shove the VHS back into its case, then get up to stack it with the other tapes and CDs I've already gone through. The amount of footage sitting in the boxes that I've yet to watch is almost nauseating.

I stretch, then grab my blazer and my bag, throw them both over the same shoulder and hold them there.

The station's dead as I head out of my little fishbowl to shut off my desk light and check to make sure I didn't leave anything. Once I'm satisfied I head for the stairs, glad for the chance to get my blood flowing again.

As I walk down all I can think about is Tucci, scared and alone and missing two appendages. He's gonna end up losing another tomorrow, and there's fuck all I can do about it.

Angrily I shove the door to the lobby open, wave to the night security guy before heading for the exit.

Fuck I hope he doesn't die before we find him.


	26. Breakfast Burrito

_ _

_Breakfast Burrito  
_ _Setting: “Let's Give the Boy a Hand”_

* * *

Traffic my ass.

I roll to a stop at the light, glare at the bumper in front of me. The station's about two blocks from here and I still have forty minutes until shift start. I mean, there was traffic, but it was manageable, and now I'm set to arrive early for another day of sitting in the fishbowl with a TV and an uncomfortable chair. I so wanted to stay at that crime scene, to help canvas or whatever needed to be done, but LaGuerta doesn't want me there, and I have to obey.

It's goddamn frustrating.

The light changes, and an impulse seizes me. I merge left, take a u-turn, go back the other way to a Mexican place up the street. If I'm gonna get through today then I need a fucking breakfast burrito. I didn't make time to eat this morning.

I travel up the street, take a right, then turn into a parking lot in a little strip mall. There's a space right in front of the restaurant, and I pull into it, kill the engine, grab my purse, open the door.

Eight minutes later I'm walking out with an agua fresca and a hot burrito wrapped in a cocoon of tin foil and paper towels. Since the building is shading my car, and since the window facing me has the blinds down, I opt to just sit on the hood to eat. I can hear cars passing down the road, feel the breeze coming in off the water nearby. It's starting to cool off again. It hasn't crested 80 once in the past week, making it downright pleasant to be outside, and making it all the more a shame I'll be stuck in the station again.

I unwrap the tin foil, smell the hot tortilla and the egg and the chorizo and the cheese and the peppers.

Fuck.

I take a bite, savor it.

But my thoughts quickly slide back to this morning.

I woke up at 6 today wired. Sleep felt impossible, so I got up and showered and got dressed. By 6:45 I was listening to the news and LaGuerta's latest press release (again), staring anxiously at my phone. I wasn't sure if anyone would call me if something turned up, but the whole morning all I could think was that the Ice Truck Killer was probably sawing off another one of Tucci's limbs as I sat there. When the phone rang at 7:03, I answered on the first ring. It was Batista. He was en route to the scene and thought I'd appreciate the heads up. I was out the door before we'd even hung up.

Unfortunately for me, I was kicked off the scene before I was able to find out anything. All I really saw was the leg in the wagon, nestled in the straw, bloody on both ends. Looked like his shin, the pair to his foot. He's moving up his leg. Who knows if Tucci's still alive after that, but if the Ice Truck Killer's been going through so much effort to keep him alive so far I'd be surprised if he let him die now. Tomorrow though... if he moves up again, unless this guy's a surgeon, cutting through the thigh would have the poor bastard bleeding out in seconds.

Though honestly, if I were him, I'd probably welcome it at this point.

I chew my burrito, staring at nothing.

Why the fucking pumpkin patch? That I know hasn't changed, at least not since the early 90s, since I do remember Dad taking us there one year. I even remember riding a wagon sort of like the one they found Tucci's leg in. Maybe Dexter was wrong about the killer dumping pieces in places that have changed. And maybe this really is a childhood thing. Beach, soccer field, pumpkin patch. Maybe the Ice Truck Killer's dad used to take him to all these places, and now he's leaving behind metaphorical pieces of him as mementos.

Maybe I should bring this up to Doakes and Batista.

Then again, maybe I shouldn't. Some pop psychology theory about his fucked up childhood isn't going to help us narrow down locations any more than 'places that have changed' did. And coming from me I doubt anyone's going to scramble the troops to every park, school, and movie theater in Miami.

I wipe off my mouth, take another bite.

That doesn't mean I can't compile something on my off-time. Maybe I'll rope Dexter in on my theory, pick his brain for ideas, get him to go out on a stake out tonight. This time I'll ask at the station so he can't just hang up on me. He'll probably say it's a waste of time, but so is sitting around watching security feeds. At least it would _feel_ like hunting.

I reach for my drink, take a long sip on the straw. As I'm making to jam it back between my legs I notice a family of five walking toward me. The kids stare at me for a second before running to the Mexican place's door and throwing it open. I give a polite smile to the parents as they briefly make eye contact, who return it before following their kids inside.

I flip my arm, check the time. I have less than twenty minutes now, but I guess I might as well get going.

Taking another sip, I slide off the hood, then get back into my car.

The drive the rest of the way back to the station is quiet. Once I arrive I crumple the tin foil, scrub off my face with the napkin, then grab my purse and exit.

I find Musuka waiting at the elevator after I get through security. For a second I debate going for the stairs to avoid him, but that seems like more effort than it's worth. “Morning,” I say, taking a sip of my drink.

He grins at me, his eyes going to my mouth, which still has the straw in it. “Morning, Morgan,” he says.

I pull the drink away, wanting to stop whatever comment I'm sure is about to pop out of him. “Why aren't you at the Ice Truck Killer scene?”

“Coz I've got a mountain of backlog,” he says. “That shooting at the heroin den's still got about a million fibers to be processed.” He sighs, “Your brother gets all the fun.”

The doors ding open, and we step inside. I nod as we do, sipping my drink again.

“Why aren't you there?”

I drop my hand. “LaGuerta's still got me on the tapes.”

“Oh, bummer,” a grin creeps across his face again. “Well, if you want company, I'm sure I can find some time to—”

“Please.” I hold up both hands. “It's too early for you.”

“Or we could always just hit the emergency break. I could give you all the company you want right here.”

I glare at him, “I have a gun. I will shoot you between the eyes.”

He starts that freaking giggling again, but before I can decide whether or not I actually want to shoot him, the doors slide open again. Thank fuck.

I step out, head for my desk. Masuka keeps walking when I stop. No messages, no memos.

I straighten, look into the fishbowl. My fishbowl. I check the time. Ugh.

Resigning myself, I walk inside and shut the door, then take off my blazer and toss it over the chair, which I then plop into. After dropping my purse I reach into the box and grab a CD.

From a restaurant near the riverwalk.

I flick the TV and the DVD player on, feed in the CD, then grab the remote and lean back.

So my day begins.


	27. “Tucci, Angel of Mercy Hospital – basement”

_ _

“ _Tucci, Angel of Mercy Hospital – basement”  
__Setting: “Let's Give the Boy a Hand”_

* * *

This is the place.

I roll to a stop, slowly key off my car. For a second I stare at the sign, feeling slightly creeped out. Angel o Mercy Hospit-l. Some of the letters are missing, others broken. There's graffiti and trash everywhere. When I look past the overgrown plants to the building I see a lot of peeled paint, broken windows, and more graffiti. Before I turn off my lights I dig through my passenger compartment for the flashlight I keep there. It's only as I'm getting out that I turn off my headlights and double lock my car.

Every terrible horror movie I've ever seen keeps flashing annoyingly through my head as I make my way toward the entrance. An abandoned hospital on Halloween. Maybe I should call for back-up. Then again I'm off duty, and for all I know this is a prank. All the message said was “Tucci, Angel of Mercy Hospital— basement” and dispatch didn't have any information as to who called it in, or why they specifically addressed it to me. Could it have been Shanda? One of her girls? Who else could it have been?

I approach the doors. They're both half-open. I reach out and pull one toward me, then peer into the hallway. It's dark as shit, but from the light coming in I can just make out trash scattered all over the floor.

This is how people die in slasher flicks. They go into the abandoned hospital alone.

But I'm a fucking cop, and this isn't a movie. I may not be entirely sure why I'm here but I'm not afraid. ( _Right?_ )

“Fuck it,” I mutter, pulling out my gun. I cross it over the flashlight, push the door the rest of the way open with my shoulder, then go inside, all my senses working on overdrive. My beam passes over more graffiti on the walls, crumpled paper and plastic and old needles on the floor, random pieces of furniture— tables, chairs. And... I hear skittering, catch a group of rats scattering away from the light. Rat shit.

I sweep the light along the floor as I walk. Rat shit everywhere.

The rats don't particularly faze me. The needles do. If I'm walking straight into a heroin den then being alone isn't my smartest move.

But the note said Tucci. In the basement.

I walk past the double doors marking what used to be an ICU, keep going through what I can only assume is an old administrative area. I don't know where the fuck to find a basement in a hospital.

Who the fuck called through dispatch about this place? Why did they address it to me?

I stop in front of a door. It's unmarked.

After a second's hesitation I reach over and rip it open, shine my beam inside. But all I see is a wall and empty shelves and about six rats, who immediately scamper for a corner and disappear through a hole. Broom closet. Great.

I shut it, keep going.

Basement, basement... (Like a morgue?)

Who called me here? What if this is a trap?

That's ridiculous. Why would the Ice Truck Killer call me here, and how could he be sure I wouldn't bring the whole department with me? How would he even know my name?

But if it wasn't him, then who the hell was it? Is this a joke? Is someone fucking with me?

I flinch at a sound, whirl around. For half a millisecond I think I see someone standing there, but then my eyes readjust, and it's just a post. ( _Shit._ ) When I shine my beam down the hall I see something larger than a rat run away, its nail scritching across the floor. Striped tail. Raccoon.

“Fuck you,” I mutter, turning back around.

Tucci. Basement. What if he really is here? Is he even still alive? Dexter said he was alive when the piece of him we found this morning was taken off him. I can only assume he's still breathing.

I open another door. It looks like it leads to an old wing. My light reflects off shattered windows and old tables. Broken glass glitters all over the floor. I can see beer bottles and more needles. I'm not going in there.

There's got to be a stairway somewhere the fuck around here.

Just as I think this I spot an in-case-of-fire map on the opposite wall. I walk over to it. “Ah ha,” I whisper, seeing a stairway marked as going down. I just have to keep going straight, then the door on the right.

I do that, find the door almost immediately. Once again I pause, but this time I don't allow myself much more than a second before opening it. My curiosity is getting the best of me, winning out over the fear. My heartbeat taps steadily, almost giddily, in my ear. I don't remember the last time I had a worse idea than this.

The stairway is pitch dark. When I walk inside the door shuts behind me, enveloping me in black. It smells like mold and dust and piss. I'm sure I'm walking in rat shit as I make my way to the stairs. I make it down a flight before I stop, noticing light coming from below.

What the fuck?

My gun is tense in my grip as I go down. Safety off. I cock it. If anything does fucking jump out at me it's going to die so much neither of us are going to believe it.

I make it down the next flight, then the next. The light gets brighter and brighter. As I step onto the final level I can see that there are lights on in the hall.

Fuck what if someone's here?

Should I announce myself?

Tucci. Basement.

_Who the fuck called me?_

I move forward, tracing the wall, gun still crossed hard over my flashlight. At the end of the hall I can see light coming through a window, and I head towards it, despite all better instincts. At the end of it I find an open door, and I go through it.

Then I freeze. All my blood seems to turn to ice, and I can feel my armpits sting.

_Jesus mother fuck shit fuck fuck fuck oh fuck_

_Is..._

“T...Tucci? Are you Tony Tucci?” the words coming from my mouth don't feel connected to me. I can hardly feel my feet on the floor.

There's a man strapped to table with bloody stumps for a hand and a leg. He's hooked up to what looks like an EKG, and there's surgical instruments arranged on a table just beside him.

He moves at the sound of my voice. ( _He fucking moved he's alive fuck_ ) “Who's there?” he asks weakly. He sounds scared and small.

“Fuck,” I say, running down the stairs. “Jesus christ. I'm Debra Morgan,” I say. “I'm a fucking cop. Jesus shit. Are you okay?” ( _of course he's not okay jesus shit he's strapped to a motherfucking table and he's missing limbs_ )

“You're a cop?” he says.

“Yes,” I scramble down the metal steps, my footsteps booming around the room. “Yes, I...” _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ I drop my flashlight, rip my radio off my belt. “This is Officer Debra Morgan, One Sierra Thirteen,” I say, half-running to Tucci. “I need fucking back-up and an ambulance immediately at 610 South St Louis Street, the old Angel of Mercy Hospital. In the basement.”

The receiver buzzes back, “One Sierra Thirteen. Officers responding.”

“Thank fuck,” I breathe, shoving it back in my belt. I approach the bed, not knowing what to do. “You're going to be okay,” I say. ( _What do I do what do I do what do I_ ) “It's all over. You're safe now.” I reach over and pull off the blindfold.

Tucci looks around wildly, then stares at me. “Oh god,” he says. He's crying. “Oh god I thought I was going to die.” His words slur together.

“You're going to be okay,” I say again. I touch his shoulder, then look at the straps, at his body.

“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you.” He keeps repeating it. He sounds delirious.

I stare. There's wires attached to his chest monitoring his heart rate, an IV line in his arm ( _where his hand was cut off_ ). “I'm going to get these off,” I assure him. I yank on the belt until I find a catch, which I quickly undo. My fingers are shaking. I go to his remaining hand and release it, then down to his foot.

The whole time he's going “Oh god, thank you, oh god, oh god.”

“I...” I start. “I don't know if you should move until the paramedics get here,” I say. I stare at his stump, then up to his face.

“I don't think I could get up,” he says.

On impulse I walk over and grab his hand, squeeze it. “It's okay. You'll be out of here soon.”

“You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” he says. His grip on my hand is weak, and his eyes aren't focusing on me. I wonder if he's drugged or if he's dying.

Fuck.

“What's your name?” he asks.

“Debra,” I say. “Debra Morgan. I'm with the Miami PD.”

He seems to try to lift his head, lets it fall again. “You're an angel, Debra Morgan.”

My heart is going so hard in my chest I feel almost faint. Fuck what if he's dying? What do I do?

“Do you know if we're alone here?” I ask.

“Nothing but the rats. He was... here earlier.”

Fear pings off my heart. “But not now?” I glance around. Now that the initial shock is wearing off my thoughts are starting to trickle back. Jesus fuck this is the right place. What if he's here? What if he's watching?

_Did he call me here?_

“I don't think so,” he says. “I don't know. Between the blindfold and whatever he's giving me...” his voice trails off. “I don't know how long I've been here.”

You don't want to know. “Are you in any pain?” I ask.

He sort of waggles his head.

I glance at his EKG. Of course it means nothing to me. I remember watching Dad's heart rate monitor but if I ever learned what normal looks like I sure as shit can't remember it now. But it doesn't look great.

I look around the room again. Standing under this spotlight I feel extremely exposed. The shadows from all the pipes feel threatening, like someone could be hiding among them.

The Ice Truck Killer was here tonight. He could still be here. He could be watching.

I release Tucci, wanting to reach for my gun, but he grabs my hand before I can pull it away. “Don't,” he whispers. “Don't leave me here.” The desperation in his voice claws at my heart.

Swallowing my fear, I re-take his hand with both my own. “It's okay,” I say. “I'm not going anywhere.” I try to give him a reassuring smile.

“How did you find me?” he asks.

“I...” I still have no fucking clue. “I got a tip,” I say. “Someone called into dispatch that you were here.”

He just stares at me. He looks woozy.

“Mr. Tucci?” I say. “Tony?”

“Who?” he says.

“It was...” I trail off as his eyes flutter. “Tony,” I say again, squeezing his hand. “Tony?”

He sort of mumbles something, then his hand goes limp.

“Fuck,” I whisper. I look at the EKG but it's not going crazy or anything. Maybe he just fell asleep.

Fuck I hope he just fell asleep.

_If you fucking die..._

I let him go, reach for my radio again. “This is One Sierra Thirteen. I need your ETA.”

“About six minutes.”

That seems like forever. “Received,” I say, then shove it back. Part of me feels like I should go up and help direct the officers and the paramedics down here, but the rest of me is afraid to leave Tucci alone. I feel like I have to guard him.

I pull out my pistol again, go for my flashlight. After picking it up I quickly sweep the basement, but I find nothing and, more importantly, no one.

Eventually I return to Tucci. The EKG still shows his heart beat as okay (I think). I check with my fingers just to be sure, but I don't know if it's wrong. I mean, I can feel it...

I take up position just beside him, my gun still crossed over my flashlight, facing the door where I first spotted Tucci from. If someone comes in I'm going to know.

The rats have started coming out of the shadows to investigate me. I watch one come up to my boot, raise up onto its back feet and sniff. I stomp downward. The sound explodes off all the metal in they room, and they all scatter away.

Shit, they were his only company. How long has he been here?

I glance down at him, check the EKG again. Still the same.

Distant sounds attract my attention, sending fear shooting down my throat. I lift my pistol again, aim straight for the door. Within moments I can distinguish multiple sets of footsteps charging toward me. My back-up. Thank god.

I lower the pistol just as three officers come into the room. They all stop like I did, staring down at the scene.

“Shit,” one of them says. The other two look at me, then the first one turns around. “Where the fuck's the paramedics?” he asks.

Within seconds more guys appear at the door: two EMTs and another officer. All of them stream down the stairs, and I holster my pistol as they come in, finally feeling safe.

“What the hell happened down here?” one of the officers ask as the paramedics check Tucci.

I ignore them. “Is he alright?”

“He's stable,” one of the EMTs says. “But that could change. We need to get him to the hospital.” He glances at me. “Did you do this?”

I look where he's pointing, at the bloody stumps. “No,” I say.

“Is that the security guard?” another uniform asks. “Tucci?”

“Yes,” I say. Now that the anxiety is gone all I can feel is the adrenaline still surging through my veins. Jesus fuck.

_Jesus fucking christ_

The cop is saying something else but I'm not listening to him. “Excuse me,” I say. I half run for the stairs, reaching for my phone. Somehow by the grace of god there's a signal down here.

_Holy fuck I just fucking saved Tony Tucci_

My fingers shake as I punch the numbers. When he answers I almost give myself a concussion slamming the phone to my ear. “Dex,” I say.

“Happy Halloween, Deb.”

“You have no fucking idea. Have you got a fucking pen?”

He pauses, “Yeah.”

“Get to the Angel of Mercy Hospital, 610 South St Louis Street. It's a fucking shithole, can't miss it.”

“What happened?”

The grin that spills across my face is so wide it hurts. “I got a tip, found Tony Tucci in the basement.” I feel giddy. “He's alive, Dex.”

He exhales, “Wow.”

“Get the fuck down here right now.”

“On my way.”

I click off. My limbs feel like they're filled with air, and my heartbeat is a hard staccato. I go back out through the door, look down at Tucci. The uniforms are talking in a knot while the EMTs are checking over Tucci.

I can't fucking believe it. He's going to be alright. He's going to go home. We aren't going to be finding another piece of him tomorrow, or ever. He's going to be able to walk away from this.

And I found him.

_I fucking saved him._

I've gotta call Miami Metro. LaGuerta's gonna fucking shit herself.


	28. Under Fluorescent Lights

_ _

_Under Fluorescent Lights  
_ _Setting: “Love American Style”_

* * *

My footsteps punch into the steps as I go down them, my gaze trained on the bed. Less than ten hours ago I found Tony Tucci strapped to it. Now the whole scene is completely transformed—lights and rulers and little number plaques everywhere, the rodents traded for lab rats. Under the harshness of the fluorescence the place doesn't feel quite real, like the nightmare that I walked into last night never really occurred. But I can smell Tucci's piss; the metallic tang of the pipes, and maybe of his blood.

I walk over to the lockers and stop beside them to watch CSU work, turning over the night as I've been doing all morning.

The high didn't wear off until after Batista and I finished canvassing around 2AM last night, when I got home. I was so exhausted I went straight to bed, but in the dark and the quiet everything I saw here kept replaying in my head in full color. Tucci, barely lucid. The blood. His missing limbs. The EKG and the IV to keep him alive so that the killer could keep cutting into him for as long as he wanted. I kept fucking seeing all those scenes with his body parts— the way his hand and leg were positioned and photographed. Tucci was just another canvas to him.

Eventually I got up again, grabbed my scotch and poured myself a couple fingers. It did nothing to chase away the thoughts, but I cut myself off so I could have a clear head this morning. I ended up spending the night chain-smoking on my balcony, lost in dark thoughts. I couldn't stop myself from imagining the killer sawing off Tucci's limbs and wrapping up the stumps as if he gave a shit about his well-being, as if he wasn't just keeping him alive to keep the pieces fresh. I kept imagining the Ice Truck Killer showing up while I was there, and how I'd've blown him away.

And above all I kept asking myself who the fuck called me here. After awhile I started wondering if it had been _him_ for some reason, the Ice Truck Killer. I can't imagine any of my hooker contacts being around an abandoned hospital, and I can't imagine one of them leaving me some cryptic message through dispatch, especially since I gave them my card. Who else could it have been?

But why would he have called me here? Was it intended to be a trap? Or was he just bored with Tucci? If he was bored, why wouldn't he have just left him here to die? And if it was a trap, why didn't he make a move on me?

It's fucking bothering me...

More footsteps clang down the stairs. I look over.

“...heard of leptospirosis? It can cause kidney failure and meningitis and—”

“I don't want to hear another motherfucking word about the rats.”

“You say that now. When we're all bleeding from our lungs you're going to wish you'd listened to me.”

“Just shut the fuck up and do your job.”

I watch as Doakes and Masuka step off the stairs, followed shortly by Batista and LaGuerta. Just as I'm wondering where my brother is, I see him walking down too, camera around his neck.

“Morgan,” LaGuerta says when she spots me. “Come here, please.”

I feel a jolt of annoyance, the thought that she might kick me off the scene for some reason popping into my head. “Lieutenant,” I say, walking to her as Batista and Masuka head for the bed, nodding at me. Doakes is standing just beside her, and my gaze instantly hits on the stitches on the side of his head.

Those weren't there when he left yesterday...

“Sergeant Doakes and I had a conversation last night after you made this find,” LaGuerta says, recapturing my attention. “We've decided that you're ready for active field duty. Since James doesn't have a partner he agreed to take you on.”

My mouth falls open, thoughts crystallizing in shock. In my periphery vision I can see Dexter's stopped on the stairs too, probably just as surprised as me.

“Wow, I...” I say after I pull myself together. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank anyone yet,” Doakes says. He sounds and looks like he's in a particularly piss-poor mood this morning. “There's a reason I haven't had a partner in a year.”

“Sergeant, keep things running down here,” LaGuerta says, as if he didn't speak. “I'm going to go back up, take care of the press outside.”

“Yeah, you've got it,” he replies.

She turns and clanks back up the stairs, moving by Dexter, who's still standing there.

I look at Doakes, and I can't help staring at his stitches again. I shouldn't ask, but... “What happened to you?”

He looks at me. “Some asshole hit me with a door.”

The 'bullshit' flows up my throat like vomit, but I swallow it quickly. If he's not sharing it's none of my business. Before I can say anything else he's walking away anyway.

I glance at Dexter, then sidle up to the stairs, a grin slowly climbing up my face. “Did you hear that?” I ask quietly. “I have a fucking partner.”

“Wow,” he says. “Looks like you're really moving up.”

“Fuckin A, I'm batting a thousand,” I say. “Now one of you geeks just has to find something here so my new partner and I can go find this dirtbag and nail his ass to the wall.”

He lifts his camera. “We'll do our best.”

I nod, and he steps off the stairs to join Masuka and Batista at the bed.

It's still strange to see the scene all lit up and filled with techs, with people I know, all combing through it. Cataloging and processing and photographing. Something intensely horrible happened down here, but the only evidence is a blood and piss soaked mattress and some tools.

But I can see him there— Tucci —can feel his clammy hand in mine, hear the pain and the terror in his voice. All he did was fucking... show up to work, and for it he spent a week in a basement getting sawed up.

It gives me the creeps.

Suddenly I have to get out, get some air, smell something besides the mattress and the dust and the pipes.

I head up the stairs, make my way back to the stairway, then go up. Rats scatter at my footfalls. They aren't really hiding from us so much as waiting for us to leave.

I reach the doors, shove them open. The parking lot is filled with cars and uniforms. Just beyond the tape there's a crowd of random pedestrians and Channel 48 news. LaGuerta is in the center of a clump of reporters. At the moment, for once, I don't feel angry with her, but something about her talking to them still bugs me. It feels disrespectful. To the media the Ice Truck Killer is a wet dream, a story that only keeps getting bigger. It doesn't matter to them what happened here, not really.

I stop under the shade of a tree, where I'm relatively hidden from anyone who isn't looking, pull a cig and my lighter from a pocket. After lighting up I watch LaGuerta talking to the reporters.

I called the hospital on the way to the scene this morning. Tucci's stable but unconscious, no signs of infection. Until (or if) we find anything here, there's nothing to be done except wait for him to wake up. Which means I'll be here.

I blow out smoke.

I wonder if he'll know anything. If it really was the Ice Truck Killer who tipped us off, then I doubt he'd've given us Tucci unless he was sure we wouldn't get anything from him. Still, after a week with him, he was bound to have seen something... heard something...

I spot Doakes coming out, who glances around. For a second we make eye contact, and I nod at him before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He dials and walks away, pressing it to his ear.

I watch. I can't believe I have a partner now. I haven't had one since I was on beat duty, and he sure as shit wasn't the sergeant of the department. I don't know whether I should consider Doakes my babysitter or not.

I take a long pull, shift my footing.

It doesn't matter. Babysitter or not, I'm going to catch this sick, arrogant prick— for all the girls he cut up, for Cherry, for Tucci.

I let the smoke billow out my nose, staring at the door to the hospital.

And for me.


	29. Questions

_ _

_Questions  
_ _Setting: “Love American Style”_

* * *

The doors open, and I step out, taking a sip of very sweet coffee. After over three hours of waiting for Tucci, I gave up— handed the head nurse my card and told her to call me the instant he wakes up, then left for the station. Who knows, maybe something turned up at the hospital I can work on.

I walk to my desk, set down my purse and my drink. Before I can sit a voice interrupts me, “Morgan.” I turn to see Doakes sitting at his desk. “Why aren't you still at the hospital?”

“Doctors said they gave him enough tranqs to put down a horse. I told them to call if anything changes,” I paraphrase. “Since shift's almost up I felt like my time could be better served here.”

He grunts, which I'm choosing to interpret as 'Okay.' I walk over, ask, “So anything turn up at the hospital?”

“Just a ton and a half of rat shit and needles,” he says. “Place is clean. Either he wore gloves or he wiped the place down before you got there.”

“Shit,” I say, though I”m not surprised at all. If it was him who called, he would've destroyed any evidence he might've left. “So Tucci's our best lead?”

“He's our only fucking lead,” he sits up in his chair. “Which is why I asked you to sit on him until he wakes up.”

“I can go back right now,” I say, pointing toward the doors.

He exhales, “No.”

“So what can I do?”

“Batista, Soderquist and Yale are interviewing witnesses,” he says. “Since the news broke on Tucci half the fucking county's saying they were near that hospital and saw something.”

“Sounds like fun,” I say, not meaning it in the slightest. “Why aren't you in there?”

“I've got court notes to finalize and paperwork for the Guerrero bust. But now that you're here you might as well go in there, clock some observation time. Maybe when Batista's done with his you can sit in on his next one.”

“Got it,” I say. Then I grin and add, “Partner.”

He shoots me a look, and I scoot away, head for the interview rooms. On my way I spot Dexter through the blinds to his office, clicking through his computer. I decide to backtrack: grab my coffee and head over there. Masuka's area is swarming with techs and boxes, and Masuka himself is glued to a microscope. He doesn't notice me as I approach and open Dexter's door.

“Hey,” I say, and my brother flinches, minimizes whatever he was looking at. I swear he always does that. If I didn't know him better I'd think he was coasting for porn.

“Hey, sister,” he says, turning around.

“So I hear we got jackshit from the hospital?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, almost sounding happy about it. “Place is spotless, not a drop of unaccounted for blood, not a single useful fiber.”

When he says that something weird and uncomfortable squirms up my stomach. I shut the door behind me, then walk over to him.

“What?” he prompts.

I tuck some hair behind an ear. “Something's been bothering me,” I say.

He waits.

“That call I got last night, that led me to Tucci?” I shift, “Do you think it might've been him? Do you think the Ice Truck Killer called me there?”

He leans back, puffs out a breath. “I... don't know.”

“I keep running through it in my head,” I say. “I don't know who else would've left a tip like that.”

“What about one of your hooker contacts?” he suggests what I keep entertaining, keep rejecting.

“No,” I shake my head. “None of my girls would've been anywhere near there. That hospital's way on the other side of the city from where they work. Even if for some reason one of them was there, why would they have gone down into that basement? Why wouldn't they have called the police instead of just requesting me?” I exhale, say what I've been thinking, “It's like Tucci was left gift-wrapped for me to find, strapped to a bed under a spotlight. What if the reason the room's so spotless is because he wiped it down, intending for us to find it?”

Dexter stares at me. “That's... wow.”

I continue, “I just don't get why this fuck would call _me_ , out of everyone working this case. I haven't been anywhere near the media coverage, am brand new to the department. How could he even know I exist?”

“I don't know,” he says. “That sounds...”

“Crazy, I know,” I interrupt. “That's why I haven't said anything. But at this point I don't know what else to think.”

He seems to catch my drift, “And you were hoping I'd have an alternate explanation?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

He looks down, his hands gripping his chair between his legs. Eventually he gives a big shrug, “I don't know. You could be right.”

His agreement seems to uncork something inside me. “Should I be worried he knows who I am? Do you think he called me there to trap me?”

Another shrug. He meets my eyes. “I don't know.”

“Well, I almost hope that impotent shithead does try something,” I say. “He'll be dead before he knows what fucking hit him.”

Dexter just looks at me, “Don't be so glib, Deb.”

I soften, “Yeah, sorry.” And if I'm honest, the thought of being in the same room with the Ice Truck Killer fills me with a lot of conflicting feelings, somewhere between fear and rage. “I'm gonna go see if I can help with the interviews,” I say after a beat. “Thanks for the talk, brother.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he says.

I cross the room, but before I reach the other door he says, “And I wouldn't worry, Deb. I don't think he'll come after you.”

I turn. “Why not?”

He shrugs, “It was one thing going after prostitutes and a security guard. You're a cop. It would... over-complicate his life.”

I study him, not sure where that came from or if he's right. “I hope you're right,” I say.

He nods, and I open the door, step out. My thoughts are still stuck in the conversation as I reach the interview rooms, step up to the window to watch. Batista's interviewing some skinny guy wearing a v-neck and Buddy Holly glasses. Yale and Soderquist are talking to an overweight guy with a sweaty shirt. I hit the intercom to listen in on Batista's conversation, but I barely take in three words, still too lost in thought.

I don't know what to think. If it really was the Ice Truck Killer who called me there, I don't know how to interpret it. If he'd wanted Tucci to be found he could've called Miami Metro or someone like LaGuerta, whose face has been all over the news. If he'd seen me on scene, either in person (somehow... does he watch us?) or in the background of a news report, I'm not sure how he could've even figured out who I am, let alone my name. Why address Tucci to me of all people? Is it a threat, his way of saying 'I know who you are'? Or was he intending to grab me last night, but for some reason he decided not to try?

Or am I thinking too much into this? Could someone else have called me, someone I can't think of?

I have to let it go. All that matters is that Tucci's alive. I may never know who called me.

I just hope Dexter's right, that he wouldn't target me. At the least he's right— I'm way outside this guy's MO. Considering we don't have anything on him, going after a cop would only turn the heat on him way up, and it doesn't seem like he'd willingly make it more difficult for him to... shop for more canvas, I guess.

I clear my throat, refocus on Batista's conversation.

Maybe somehow one of these guys could help us.

I listen to V-neck's stutter, note the quavery way he keeps tapping his fingers together.

Then again maybe not.


	30. Second-Guess

_ _

_Second-Guess  
_ _Setting: “Love American Style”_

* * *

I watch Doakes walk to LaGuerta's office, half shut the door behind him. I wasn't wrong. I'm _not_ wrong. I still believe that.

( _“What the fuck were you thinking?”_ )

Okay, it was tactless. I fucked up. But I _know_ Tucci could tell us something... It was just the wrong time, the wrong way, to ask.

I push to my feet, head back to the interview room, trying to shove all my feelings down, trying to breathe away the shame and the anger. I stop outside the door to compose myself, put on a blank face, then open it. The second I walk in Perry freezes, turns to look at me, looking guilty as shit.

“I was just, uh... looking at your camera,” he says. “I was right. KG-230.”

I just look at him for a second. I hate to admit it, but Doakes is probably right: this guy's the biggest fucking dweeb I've met in recent memory. I have a hard time believing he would've been anywhere near that hospital at night. Still, I can't help but ask, “You see anyone else in that book who seems familiar?”

He shakes his head, “No, I... I don't know. It was dark. Hard to make out his face with the... cap and all.”

God, fuck me, fuck Doakes, fuck this asshole. “Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Perry,” I say. “If you remember anything else, please call. You have a card?”

“Right here,” he pats his pocket.

“I'll show you out.”

“Great, thanks.”

I go to the table, grab the mug book and slam it closed. Then I walk to the door and open it wider, gesture for him to go. He does.

As we walk he keeps glancing at me. “So you were at the crime scene yesterday?” he asks eventually.

I fucking found the crime scene. “Yes,” I say.

“Did you see that security guard?”

I give him a look.

“I'm just... curious, you know, I mean, since I was there and all. So close.”

“Yeah, I saw him,” I say, then stop outside the elevator doors, stab the button. The doors open immediately, and as much as I don't want to I step inside. He follows. I hit close and '1,' then hold them until the doors shut again.

“That must've been traumatic.”

This time I just say nothing.

Thankfully he's silent for a few beats, then, “I can't believe I was so close to that and had no idea.”

I give him a fake, disinterested smile. Two seconds later the doors open. “Hand the desk sergeant your visitor's badge on your way out,” I say, pointing in his general direction. “Good night, Mr. Perry.”

“Sorry I couldn't be of more help, Officer,” he says, stepping out.

“It's okay,” I say, then punch the buttons again. I watch him walk away until the doors shut, then I let my gaze slip to the floor. Within half a minute I'm walking to the break area, wanting coffee. Doakes is still in LaGuerta's office. I can hear their voices through her window.

Everyone else is pretty much out of here. Dexter left a little early with Batista to get drinks. I might've gone too if Perry hadn't walked in. (Could he have known something? Was Doakes too quick to rush to judgment? Should I have walked him through the book more or was it right to follow orders and dump him out of the station?)

(Fuck if I know...)

I grab my mug off the drying rack, fill it with coffee and half a ton of powdered coffeemate. Once it's good and white, I take a sip and walk to my desk. As I sit my hair starts to pull, so I reach up, take out the pencil I had twisted in there earlier to pull it into a half pony. My hair falls out, and I set the pencil down, fluff it slightly. Then I grab my mouse, click through to my email. Nothing. Next my phone. Nothing there either (though what did I expect?).

I pull out the stack of folders in my desk. Copies of all the Ice Truck Killer stuff. Lately I've been flipping through it all over and over until the details seer themselves into my eyes, just hoping to find something we missed. I had thought that tonight we'd have more than just 'white' and 'average build' to go on. I'd felt so optimistic this morning when the hospital called, was so looking forward to talking to Tucci that I was practically vibrating in my seat as Doakes drove us down. Is he right? Did I fuck any chance we had of getting a lead out of Tucci?

I stare blindly at the report on our remaining Jane Doe, the one who was found at Bayfront Park and whose autopsy I attended.

No, I don't believe that. Maybe today was the wrong day to go at him so hard, but I know Tucci knows something, and I know he could handle our questions. A lot of that smiling act was probably a front, but not _all_ of it. The guy's stronger than Doakes gives him credit for. The fact that he could even smile at all after what he went through is a testament to that. If it had been me, I don't know if I ever would've been the same after something like that, let alone cracking jokes the next day.

I'll need to talk to Doakes, convince him to take another run at Tucci. He's still our only lead. After spending half the day jerking off with Batista's potential witnesses, I'd think he'd be just as aggressive as me in wanting to try to get something out of the only guy we know for a fact was actually around the killer.

I flip through the shots from the Doe crime scene, skim the coroner's report for the thousandth time. I practically know it by heart at this point, but it bugs me that we still have no idea who she is.

“Morgan,” I hear, and I look up to see Doakes standing over me. His jacket's slung over his arm.

“Yeah?” I say, raising my brows at him.

“You take care of Perry?”

“Yep.”

He nods, “Good. Go on home. It's getting late.”

I want to argue with him. “Alright,” I say instead.

“See you in the morning.” He walks away, takes the stairs down. I glance from him to LaGuerta's office, notice she looks like she's packing it in too.

I don't want to go home. There's nothing waiting for me there except a mess and frozen food and a cold bed. Then again there's nothing for me here either. The Ice Truck Killer's my only case, and currently our only lead is sitting in a bed eating fruit cups.

Exhaling, I shut the folder, put it and the rest back into my drawer, then stand. My purse is in another drawer, and I pull out and set it on my desk. Grabbing my coffee, I take a couple long, big gulps, then walk back toward the break area to rinse the mug out.

Who knows, maybe the Ice Truck Killer really did call me to that scene, just to fuck with us some more by leaving us a live victim who can't tell us anymore than the dead ones. But I know in my gut that Tucci'll be able to help us. We just have to ask him the right way.

God I hope so, anyway. All this treading water is driving me up the fucking wall.

I set the mug back in the drying rack, turn for my desk.

Maybe it's good I'm going home. I need some fucking beer.


	31. Concession

_ _

_Concession  
_ _Setting: “Love American Style”_

* * *

And another day ends. Another day of nothing, that is.

I flip a page in Masuka's fiber report. I just got the cliffnotes from him twenty minutes ago, but curiosity and idleness bid me look through it. Going after the manufacturer of the sheets was a bust— just standard low-thread count white sheets, on stock at any Kmart, Target, Bed Bath & Beyond, whatever. The surgical tools were a bit more specific than generic sheets, but ultimately they could've been purchased from a medical supply store or off the internet. Ditto for the IV bags (antibiotics and painkillers). We're still not sure about the EKG machine since the serial number was scratched off, though for all we know it came from somewhere in the hospital.

Everything else that's been gone through has been just as useless— rat corpses and turds; needles with drug residue from upstairs (mostly heroin, though whoever left them was probably long gone by the time we got there); hair, fibers, fluids from Tucci. Unless Masuka's right and the rats really did move evidence into their hidey holes, the whole building's gonna end up giving us jack shit.

It pisses me off.

I shut the report, glance sideways at Doakes' empty desk. He left this afternoon for court, still refusing to budge on the Tucci issue, and he'll be gone again in the morning. I'm sure if he would've let me go down today by myself or with someone else I would've walked away with something, but instead I spent most of the day helping to demolish Batista's 'potential witness' list while hoping that something would finally break forensically.

My gaze travels right, lands on Batista himself, who's leaning heavily on his hand, looking like death warmed over. His hangover's been chasing him all day, and it looks like it finally caught up to him. I'd feel sorry for him if it wasn't so funny watching him chug so much water.

I hear footsteps behind me, look away from Batista to see Dexter walking out of his office, bag over his shoulder.

“Hey,” I say as he approaches, leaning back. “Heading off?”

“Yeah, finished my reports so...” he trails off, looking like he wants to ask me something.

“What's with the face?” I prompt.

“Just... Rita. I think I...” he cuts himself off, seems to change his mind about something. “You know any good movies? Something light?”

A grin breaks across my face. I laugh, “Me? You remember who you're talking to, right?”

He stares at me almost helplessly, “Right.”

“I can't even fucking remember the last time I actually sat down and watched a movie,” I say. “I don't know, Dex. Stop by Blockbuster, pick up something from the rom-com section.” The thought of Dexter sitting through a rom-com makes me grin a little wider.

“I can do that...” he trails off, apparently lost in his thoughts.

“So I guess you already have plans for dinner then?” I ask, trying to sound casual about it.

He refocuses on me, “Yeah, I do. Sorry, Deb.”

“I wasn't asking,” I say defensively, though I kind of was.

“If you're looking for something to do, you could always get out, see the inside of some other walls for a change.”

I feel the grin slip away. “Would you lay off? Jeez, you never used to pry so much.”

He looks at me earnestly, “Just looking out for you. You've been living and breathing this case since the transfer. I just think it wouldn't hurt you to take some time for yourself, have fun.”

For some reason I glance past Dexter, notice Batista's obviously listening to our conversation. I meet his bloodshot gaze, and he quickly busies himself with something on his desk. “I'll find me a life,” I say to Dexter. “Just not tonight or tomorrow or anytime soon. Don't worry about it.”

“Alright,” he holds up the hand on his bag in surrender. “Night then, Deb.”

“Night,” I say.

After he walks away, I look at Batista, who's still pretending to be doing something. Eventually he glances up, meets my eyes again.

“What?” I say, hearing the elevator ding somewhere behind me.

“Nothing,” he says. “You're free to lead your life however you want.”

Between him and Dex and Masuka the peanut gallery never shuts the fuck up around here.

“Uh huh,” I look back down at my desk, wishing there actually was something here to work on. It's unbelievably frustrating to have found (or to have been given) something as promising as a building which we know for a fact the Ice Truck Killer had been using for an extended amount of time and to come away with nothing but a mountain of non-evidence.

“Well,” I glance back to see Batista creaking to his feet, crushing another water bottle as he does. “I'm gonna get home, have a bit more of the hair of the dog, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say. I watch as he slowly gathers stuff from his desk, then shuffles for the elevator, exchanging a goodbye with me on his way. Going home to his wife. Dexter to his girlfriend. I see other officers joining Batista at the elevator: half of them are married. I wonder percentage-wise how many of us don't have someone waiting at home, or waiting to meet up for dinner.

I glance left, toward LaGuerta's office. She's still in there.

Well, that's at least two of us.

Fuck do I not want to be her...

In annoyance, I grab Masuka's report and toss it in my desk along with all the other Ice Truck Killer stuff. One last check of my email shows me nothing except this morning's memo about handwriting in regards to official documents, which I delete. Then I just sit for a beat before a feeling of defeat creeps up my chest.

Fine... I give up.

I log off, shut down, grab my shit. I'm halfway to the elevator when my phone rings. Stopping, I dig around for it, then pull it out. I don't recognize the number.

“Morgan,” I answer.

“It's Doakes,” I hear.

Why the fuck would he be calling me? Before something petulant can spring to my lips, he's speaking. “Listen,” he says. “I've been thinking about what you said this morning.”

I blink. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You're right. Tucci's the best lead we have, and we need to talk to him again. But,” he preemptively cuts me off, “You need to find a fucking pair of kid gloves.”

“I think I have some in a box lying around somewhere,” I say flippantly.

“Good, coz you're talking lead tomorrow.”

I feel my mouth fall open. “What?”

“Tucci's built a connection to you,” he says. “If we're going to get anything out of him we need to use that. Besides,” he exhales into the phone, “He was your find. You've earned it.”

“You're shitting me,” I breathe, feeling suddenly a little giddy.

“You're still a fucking pain in the ass.”

I can't stop it, “Yeah, so are you.”

There's silence on the other end of the line. ( _Shit_ )

“Sergeant,” I add to try to pull my foot out of my mouth, as if it makes any difference.

“I should be out of court by 11. Pick me up and we'll go straight to the hospital from there.”

“Yeah, okay, great.”

“I'll see you tomorrow then, Morgan.”

“Yeah. Uh, bye.”

He clicks off, and I do the same. Then I sort of grin down at my phone for a second.

I'm taking _lead_ with _Tucci._ Doakes is giving me a second chance with this, and I won't let either of us down. By lunch tomorrow, if there is a god, we'll have a lead.

I look around. Goddammit, just me, no one to celebrate this moment with. Not that getting to take another run because of a fuck-up is really anything to celebrate...

I walk over to the elevator, hit the button.

Suddenly it doesn't really matter anymore that I'm going home to a silent apartment, and it doesn't matter that the day was spent wasted on people who either live around the hospital and saw nothing or people who claimed they'd walked by it and seen 'some guy' in the shadows. If Doakes is willing to concede then maybe he finally heard me, and maybe he might come to respect my opinions. And most importantly, maybe Tucci will be able to give us something that'll finally put this dirtbag in the ground.

The elevator doors open, and I step inside.

Tomorrow can't come soon enough.


	32. Blindfold

_ _

_Blindfold  
_ _Setting: “Love American Style”_

* * *

My thoughts swirl as I get into the passenger side of my car, direct my gaze out the window. Doakes turns over the engine in silence, then pulls out of the hospital parking lot. I wonder if this is bothering him too, all that shit we just heard.

Jesus.

When I close my eyes I can almost be standing up on that metal railing again, looking down on Tucci where he was strapped to the table. I can almost smell the musk of mold spores and dust again, the sharp, metallic notes from the pipes, and possibly from the blood. Besides the Ice Truck Killer himself, I'm the only one who saw that scene undisturbed. And unfortunately I can imagine everything that Tucci just described to us. I can imagine standing up there on that railing, watching helplessly as some shadowy figure unwraps a lozenge and pops it into his mouth, turns on a small rotary saw, holds it down to Tucci's arm and presses the blade to his skin. The sound of him screaming. The sight of the blood spraying everywhere as steel meets arteries and bone. Jesus, he was awake for it. Did he watch as his hand came off? Did that sick fuck show it to him after?

No, he couldn't have... he was blindfolded...

Jesus christ. He probably had no idea what was about to happen until he heard the saw, until he felt him hold down his hand, until he felt the blade tearing into his skin.

Jesus fuck.

And then the next day he came back for his foot. And then again for his shin. When he heard me come in, did he think I was coming to take another piece of...

“You alright?”

“What?” I clear my throat, looking over at Doakes, process what he said. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

“That was some heavy shit,” the sergeant says, his eyes still trained on the road. It occurs to me that I don't know where we are or how long we've been driving in silence. “It doesn't matter how long you've been doing this. Hearing something like that can fuck anyone up.”

“Well, I'm fine,” I say.

He glances at me, and from the look on his face he obviously can see through me. I expect him to press the point, but when he opens his mouth next all he says is, “It's lunch. Want to pick something up before we head back to the hospital?”

I can't really tell if what I'm feeling in my stomach is from hunger or from nausea. Who knows, maybe a little of both. “Sure,” I say.

He nods, slows, takes a right. For awhile we just continue in silence, and inevitably I start thinking about Tucci again. I can't believe he can smile, has the strength to sleep alone. Just the thought of what he went through is going to keep me up tonight. Actually going through it? Christ, in his shoes I would've been a hysterical wreck...

I refocus on reality as I feel the car stop, realize we're in a parking lot in a strip mall.

“What do you want?” Doakes asks. He points around at the various restaurants and shops walling us in. “Not the sushi.”

I glance at him, then around the mall. The thought of sushi is kind of repulsive. Then again the thought of food is kind of repulsive. I swallow, shrug a little helplessly, “I don't care. Something light.”

He looks at me, then leans forward over the wheel. “That place looks like it's got sandwiches and stuff.” He indicates the cafe directly in front of us.

I try to stick a smile on my face, lighten my tone, “Yeah, sounds good.”

We get out, walk there together. It's drizzling slightly, and everything smells like wet pavement and gasoline. A warm rain that feels more like the next step up from the one hundred percent humidity.

When we step inside the cafe it's half-full, cool and dry. Under the clinking of silverware and ceramic is some steady, vaguely rhythmic jazz song. All over the walls are weird abstract paintings and landscapes for sale. The banality of it all is jarring. Then again horrible things happen every day. Doesn't mean the world stops turning.

I realize suddenly that the chick behind the register is looking at me expectantly. I haven't even glanced at the menu. I don't know. “You have a caesar salad?” I ask. “With chicken?”

She smiles at me, all chipper. “Sure do.”

“Great,” I say. “With lots of dressing.”

“Something to drink?”

I don't kno... “Just water.”

She nods and pulls out a plastic pitcher full of ice and water. “That'll be twelve forty-eight, please.”

“Oh, we're not—” I start to say.

Doakes cuts me off, hands her a ten and a five. “Here.”

She makes his change, hands it back, all the while her face holding that easy-breezy smile. She looks sweet, a thousand miles away from all the horror we're taking a break from. “It'll be just a few minutes. Here's your cups.” She holds out two plastic to-go cups. Doakes takes them both, pulls the first out of the second, and hands me mine. I grab the pitcher and follow him as he goes to the soda fountain and fills it with coke.

“You didn't have to do that,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “Go find a seat.”

I look at the back of his head a moment, or more specifically at those mysterious stitches, then turn and find a table. I go for the most isolated one, a small table near the window. Once I get there I sit, pour myself some water and drink it, watch the rain mist the cars.

“If you want to know, this shit still bothers me,” Doakes says as he appears suddenly, plopping into his chair. “Taking statements from witnesses, making notifications. But it gets easier to compartmentalize.”

I look at him. His sincerity surprises me. He's never struck me as the type to bond. “I just can't believe he lived through all that and survived,” I say. “I can't imagine...”

“Don't,” he says. “Just don't go there. It's not your job. That's what shrinks and his family are for. You have to keep a clear head, because at the end of the day we're the ones who are going to find this cocksucker and haul his ass in. It's a thousand times harder to do that when you're invested. Believe me, I know.”

I study him, wondering what he's talking about. I've heard some rumors about him and Kara Simmons, but as I sit here I don't want to know if they're true, because if they are then it's _really_ none of my business.

“It's okay to be upset,” he continues, oblivious to my thoughts. “No one at the station is going to judge you. Frankly, if you didn't have a reaction there'd be something wrong with you. But you have to be able to walk away from a scene, because we're cops, not social workers.”

“I know,” I say, lifting my chin a little.

“You've done really good work since you got here, Morgan,” he says. “With some training you might make a great addition to Homicide. You're certainly stubborn enough.”

At that I grimace.

He ignores it. “Just take things as they come.” He takes a sip from his plastic cup. “And hopefully Masuka'll find something at that damn hospital.”

I look at him for a long moment, taking a drink myself. The water tastes interesting, like it's got cucumber in it or something. “Thanks,” I say, putting the cup down.

“Well, if we're gonna be stuck together we might as well get along. Even if you are a fucking pain in the ass.”

I grin at him, “It's too late. You've already shown me your soft side.”

He gives me a look, “I don't have a soft side.”

“See, you say that...” my words trail off as some guy in a black, logo'd t-shirt appears at our table with two plates. We both look up at him.

“I've got a caesar salad and a pastrami sandwich.”

“Salad's mine,” I say.

He nods and sets both plates in front of us. “Enjoy,” he says, then quickly makes his way away. Maybe he sensed he was interrupting, or maybe he spotted the bulge of Doakes' piece under his armpit.

“Thanks for lunch,” I say, unwrapping my fork from its napkin.

He waves me off.

We eat quietly. I think about what he said. It's one thing to talk about compartmentalization, but it's another to sit there and listen to somebody recount something that only seems possible in some trashy movie, in some non-reality. I don't know if I believe in Evil, capital 'e,' but it's the only word that seems to fit this sick fuck we're hunting, whoever he is.

For Tucci I can shut my heart in a box— for him and all these dead women.

I skewer a piece of chicken with my fork, eat it.

Now I just hope to fuck that making him recount that memory to us will be worth it. We can't walk away from that hospital with nothing.


	33. A Favor

_ _

_A Favor  
_ _Setting: “Love American Style”_

* * *

“To Debra Morgan,” Batista shouts over the trumpet. “Who blew into Homicide and gave us our first real lead on this case.”

Glasses go up all around me. I grin, face on fire as half my new department says my name. We all down our shots together. The second they're gone, Batista turns to the barkeep. “Another round for my friends,” he says.

It's surreal to be standing here like this, to have spent the evening being acknowledged and congratulated, when just a few weeks ago I was terrified that I was never going to get this transfer, that I'd be booted back to Vice and no one would ever see me as anything more than a pair of legs. Now in the course of a few days I have a partner and a lead, and suddenly I'm accepted. All these guys insisted on taking me out tonight to celebrate the break in the case, to officially welcome me into Homicide.

I'm in. After years of wanting nothing but this, I'm finally, really in Homicide.

“Here,” Batista hands me a fresh shot. “Drink.”

I obey, savor the heat that blooms up and down my throat. Ramos and Bliloc appear at my elbow, both now gripping beers, and just like that we're making conversation, as easily as if a few weeks ago they hadn't been loudly speculating about my relationship with Matthews (which, whatever, water under the bridge). Suddenly them and everyone else wants to tell me about their experiences first coming into Homicide, their voices blending with the loud Cuban music being played a couple yards away. For the first time since the whole Sean... thing, or possibly since I started working on this case, I finally relax.

But the feeling doesn't last, and I switch to water as other, darker thoughts tug at the back of my mind. Eventually people start breaking away in clumps to go home, bidding the rest of us goodbye. I take the opportunity to leave with the third group, thanking Batista for the drinks. He smiles at me from his stool, looking like he has every intention of staying, and if it weren't for the increasingly relentless feeling in the pit of my stomach, I'd stay with him and drink. Instead I bow out, separate from Yale, Soderquist, and Lopez at the parking lot, and get into my car.

It's as I shut the door that all those feelings finally wash over me.

Tony Tucci.

I know what Doakes said: I can't let myself get invested. But through the day I couldn't stop myself from thinking about him. We're all excited about the print, but I can't forget the story that led us to it. I keep imagining lying there blind, listening to the Ice Truck Killer crinkle the very wrapper we found, helpless to do anything but wait as he picks what part of my body to saw off and then does it, keeping me awake so, what, I can fully appreciate the control he has over me? So he can hear me scream? (Is that what he did to his other victims?) While I'm out being toasted for pressing Tucci into telling us his story, Tucci himself is lying in a hospital bed being fitted for prosthetics, probably wondering if his life could ever be like it was just a few weeks ago.

It feels wrong because it is.

And I keep thinking about what he said, that I'm probably the last woman who would flirt with him. Since he said that an idea's been floating around my head, and I don't know if it's a good idea but it's _an_ idea, and it seems like the only thing I can do...

Exhaling, I pull out my phone, then dig around my purse for the post-it she wrote her number on a few days ago. I finally find it stuck to the wall of the side pouch. Once it's out I just stare at it, wondering what the fuck I'm thinking. Then I dial.

She takes so long to answer I almost hang up, then, “Hello?”

“Shanda,” I say.

“Well, hey, Cagney,” she says. “What's up? You change your mind? Gonna fuck up my landlord or what?”

I don't know if I regret this or not. “Shanda, I can't fuck him up,” I say. “I'm a police officer, not a mob enforcer.”

“Hnuh,” she clucks.

“But that doesn't mean I can't talk to him, see if I can't fuck up his day a little.” I try to figure out how to phrase my request, “But in return I was hoping you could do me a favor?”

“Mm hm. What'cha want, chica?” I can hear rap music booming distantly in the background.

How do I say this? “You been following the news?”

“You mean about that Ice Truck fuck?” she says. “Yeah. Can't walk by a newsstand without seeing something.”

“You remember hearing about the security guard we found a few days ago? Tony Tucci?”

She pauses, “Yeah.”

“Would you be willing to...” I grope for words, “see him?”

Another pause. “You want me to fuck that rentacop?”

What am I doing? “I... I just want someone to give him some attention,” I say. “The guy's been through hell, Shanda. You can't even imagine...” I trail off, since I _have_ been imagining.

She's silent for awhile. “If I do this you'll talk to my landlord?”

I can't believe she's agreeing. “I'm off-shift tomorrow,” I say. “If he's carrying I'll even haul him into booking for you.”

“Then we're even,” she says. “Honestly, I've seen the news. I feel sorry for that poor bastard. Is it true he lost a hand and a foot?”

“Yeah, it's true,” I shift in my seat.

“That's some twisted shit.” I hear her adjust the phone. “Listen, I'm in front of the botanica. You come pick me up, I'll do whatever you want to that security guard.”

Jesus, it was that easy. And completely illegal. Here I am sitting in the parking lot after drinking with half the fucking cops in Homicide. “I'll be there in twenty minutes,” I say.

“I'll look out for you.”

We hang up. For a moment I just sit here, wondering what the hell I'm doing, but it already feels done to me, and strangely it's almost a relief. I don't know if this is even appropriate but I can't stand the thought of doing nothing. Maybe it's because I'm the one who found him, maybe it's because that bond between us Doakes was talking about got formed both ways, I don't know.

I turn over the engine, flip on the lights and my wipers. It's raining lightly but steadily as I leave the bar, make my way north.


	34. At a Salvage Yard in Opa-locka

_ _

_At a Salvage Yard in Opa-locka  
_ _Setting: “Return to Sender”_

* * *

“Turn around, Morgan,” Doakes says, flipping shut his phone. “Crime scene. I was just about to call you.”

I stop barely six feet from the elevator, coffee cup in hand, watch as he and a bunch of other cops head in my direction. “Jesus, where's the fire?” I ask.

Doakes moves by me, stabs the elevator button. “Got an anonymous tip through dispatch this morning,” he says. “Sent out a few uniforms to follow up and they found a body. We've got a possible new Ice Truck Killer victim. Another woman.”

All the heat in my limbs seems to dissipate. “What? Where?”

“At an auto salvage yard up in Opa-locka,” he says. The doors finally open, and we step inside, along with the other cops, who all nod and smile at me. Ramos is holding a half-eaten bagel with what smells like lox piled on top.

“A salvage yard?” I repeat to Doakes as we descend. That doesn't seem nearly as public as the other dump locations.

“Yeah,” he says. “Masuka's packing up his kit, so Forensics will be right behind us. If this really is the Ice Truck Killer again we've gotta lock that crime scene down tight before the press can get anywhere near it.”

“Happy fucking Monday,” I mutter, sipping my coffee.

He glances at me, then looks back at the door. We say nothing more to each other as we head out of the station and into the parking lot, beyond his brusque “I'll drive.” I wonder how much more he knows than he's saying, but at the moment I'm fine to wait to find out. Just thinking about the Ice Truck Killer fills me with a sloshy mix of excitement and dread, like I'm standing with my toes hanging just off the edge of a cliff. Another dead woman. What happened to her? If she could, would she tell another story like Tucci's?

Was she alive and awake when he started to cut her up?

I take another sip of coffee. In the quiet moments of my weekend all I could seem to fucking think about was Tucci's story. After not sleeping Friday night, it was almost a pleasure to meet Shanda outside her building to harass the 3000-pound walrus who manages her building, maybe because it was so easy. All it really took was making some vague, empty threats about calling for a building code inspection and searching the premise for controlled substances for him to back off.

It was the most in control of anything I've felt in awhile.

I adjust in my seat, kind of wanting a smoke but knowing Doakes would probably kick me into outcoming traffic if I tried. So instead I search for something to break the silence. “How was your weekend?” is what I find.

He glances at me. “It passed.”

“That bad, huh?”

He just sort of glowers at the road.

“It's okay,” I say. “Mine... passed too.”

Another glance. And that's pretty much it for conversation, I know.

Well, I tried.

I stretch my legs against the floor, finish my coffee, stare at the road, wait for us to get where we're going. It's not until we exit the freeway that that giddy sense of dread climbs back up my stomach and starts spreading out, up my throat and down through my guts. By the time we pull up to a green and white sitting on the curb outside a high metal fence, I feel half queasy from it.

“Make sure no one without a badge makes it any closer than this,” Doakes says to the uniforms in the car before pulling through the gate. He parks outside a sheet metal fence with about a thousand axles sticking over it, and we both get out at the same time. The air smells very sharply of rust and metal.

“You found the body?” Doakes asks a uniform standing by the open gate, who looks a little pale.

“Yes, sir,” he says. He points behind him, at what looks like a ‘70s Airstream. “She's in there.”

We both look at it, and then I glance at Doakes. A trailer in a salvage yard, all the way out here? This is about as not-public as it gets.

But he doesn't look at me, just nods and starts forward. I follow him through the aisle of dead cars, feeling my trepidation mount. The door's open when we reach it.

“Here.” Doakes holds a pair of gloves out for me, then steps inside once I’ve taken them. I snap them on as I follow him up, but immediately find myself drawn short at the threshold.

Jesus.

A woman— a whole woman, not body parts —is lying naked on a table, so straight and rigid it reminds me of how corpses are positioned in the morgue. Under her is a red and white plastic table cloth. From here I can't see how she died, and I can't see a speck of blood anywhere. All around her is the filth of this junker, but the place where she's been laid out looks completely spotless.

“What a fucking dump,” Doakes says, walking around to the woman's left. His words seem to unstaple me from the floor, and I go right. As I get closer I see her neck, the deep gouges on either side, and know instantly how she died. I almost reach up to touch my own neck but catch myself, let my hand fall.

And on her cheek, a single, long cut, all purpled by bruises, or lividity.

“This isn't right,” I say. “This isn't the Ice Truck Killer.”

Doakes glances at me. “How do you figure?”

I make an all-encompassing gesture. “Look at her. Look at this place. After sectioning up six people and leaving their body parts all over downtown, why would he cut this chick's throat and leave her on a table in a salvage yard in the middle of bumfuck Opa-locka?” The way she's laid out though, so fucking clean and bloodless.

“Yeah, can't say I disagree,” he says.

But despite what I said I reach over her and hold my hand there, try to feel anything coming off her skin. And maybe I'm just imagining it, but I do.

She’s cold. Really cold.

“What're you doing?”

Before I can answer, there's a creak behind us, and we both glance back to see Masuka coming in with a little black case.

“Morning, Sergeant, Morgan,” he says, grinning at me. I roll my eyes as his gaze falls from me, comes to rest on the dead woman instead. “Wow, look at those tits,” he mutters. That's not where he's looking though.

Doakes glares at him. “Just shut up and take her prints,” he says.

Feeling thoroughly grossed out, I move for the door so Masuka can have access. Back here the smell is even stronger, and it reminds me of a public bathroom, though I don't even want to check if this thing has or has had a toilet. But despite the smell, I stand still, watch Masuka lift her hand. “Rigor's come and gone,” he says. “Looks like she was dumped.”

“Does she feel cold to you?” I ask.

He glances at me. “I don't know. I need to check her body temp. Can't take it until Dexter and his camera show up though.” He pops open his case and pulls out some sort of kit.

I watch as he unpacks some things and starts printing her. Doakes does as well, but abruptly at her second finger he moves away. “I've gotta direct the team,” he says, looking at me. “Morgan, watch Masuka. Make sure he doesn't decide to fuck the body or something.”

“Please, as if I’d have to resort to a corpse,” Masuka says as Doakes clomps out of the trailer, not looking up from his fingers. “I have access to plenty of warm bodies. I'll have you know I had not one but _two_ hotties on their—”

“Stop,” I say over him. “He's gone.”

“I know,” he says, and this time he does look up and around, at me. Wiggles his brows.

I meet his annoying, grinning face, several possible responses popping into my head. “A little respect please,” I say, settling on civil. “Considering you're standing over a dead woman.”

“And a fine one she is,” he says, still grinning like the perverted little freak he is, but at least he goes back to doing what he's supposed to be doing.

I pull one of my gloves tighter, cross my arms, stare at the body.

Even if this isn't the Ice Truck Killer, it's still fucking weird. I don't know if the table she's on was in this trailer originally, but considering the state of the cushions and the walls and everything else in this shitheap, I'd be surprised if it was. The table cloth looks new and clean. No blood, no signs of a struggle. She’s an obvious dump— but not a dump, a _display._ She was killed and brought here, laid out on this table nude for someone to find. And then there's that weird cut on her cheek.

Could it be him? Or someone else?

I stare at her. No track marks or tattoos, nice nails. Looks like she got regular mani-pedis. She doesn't look like a hooker. Who is she, and how did she end up here? _Why_ did she end up here, like this? Clearly someone wanted her to be seen.

“Right.” Masuka breaks through my thoughts, snapping something I can't see closed and tossing it in his case, which he picks up. “I'm gonna go get these running.” He holds up a plate in a plastic baggie. “You watch our friend here. Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.”

I grimace at him as he heads out of the trailer, leaving me alone in here.

For a second I don't move, but then I step closer, toward the body. I don't really know what I'm looking for, but this just feels... off, in the same way the Ice Truck Killer scenes felt, even though she hasn't been cut into pieces.

I stop and look down at her cheek, at that weird, long cut. Not that I know shit about forensics, but it looks like it was done in a clean, quick, single sweep. Almost like she wasn't moving when it happened, almost like it was done when she was already dead.

I stare at it.

And why do that?

 


	35. Copycat Killer

_ _

_Copycat Killer  
_ _Setting: “Return to Sender”_

* * *

I open the door, flick on the lights, head immediately to my coffee table and dump all the shit I'm carrying on it. For the first time in weeks, it doesn't bother me that I came home to an empty apartment and a barren fridge. Hell, I'm actually a little glad for it, coz tonight I need the quiet.

Well, glad for the quiet, anyway. Not the fridge situation.

I go to my sink, rinse out the glass I left in here yesterday, then fill it with tap water. Turning, I yank open my freezer door and pull out the ice tray, which I slam against the counter, too impatient to be gentle about it. Little bits of ice fly everywhere. I bend and pick up the biggest pieces off the floor, chuck them in my sink, then grab a couple cubes from the tray and drop them in my glass. Shove the tray back into the freezer and swing the door closed. Leave the remaining, tiny ice flecks to melt on my floor.

As I’m moving away I change my mind, grab a beer too.

Then into my bedroom to change into a tank and a pair of sweats. Within a minute I'm back in my living room, settling cross-legged on the floor and reaching for the stack of reports I picked up at the station when Doakes dropped me off.

This case is fucking insane.

I spread everything out in front of me, separate it into two stacks while taking a sip of brewskie: a pile each for Jorge and Valerie Castillo. Then I pull my laptop off the table and turn it on, feed it the USB stick I got off Masuka. We've been out the whole day, so I haven't even seen a lot of this stuff yet, and I don't know if I'm hopeful or not that all this is going to fit with my theory.  
Because, really, there are only two options here: Jorge Castillo killed his wife, or someone else did, and I can't stop thinking that that someone else may've been emulating the Ice Truck Killer.

Ignoring Jorge's stack for now, I grab the forensic reports from the salvage yard and the autopsy report. When my laptop wakes up, I click through to the USB and double click the first picture in the set, hit F11. A shot of the scene from the entrance to the salvage yard goes full screen. I tap ahead until I get to the first shot of Valerie Castillo's body, stop, then flip open the autopsy report. The first few pages are large, color shots of her body in the morgue, laid out on the coroner's table in a manner eerily similar to how she was left at the scene.

I move past them, skim the report. COD, hypovolemia— she bled out from her neck wounds. No defensive marks, no trace, no fibers from any clothing, no nothing, almost like she was murdered nude and showered off before she was laid out. Besides the gouges in her neck and the puncture from the drug used to knock her out, the only mark on her body is that cut on her cheek. It was made perimortem. She could've been alive or dead when it was done.

But why was it done?

I grab Masuka's report on the drug, Etorphine Hydrochloride. He said it was an animal tranquilizer or something?

I reach for my laptop, cancel out of the slideshow and open up Google. Type it into the search bar and hit the second link. _“Although newer and more desirable opiates have been developed (carfentanil, A3080), etorphine is still the drug of choice for exotic equids, rhino, and other hoof stock.... Etorphine’s potent opiate agonist activity produces rapid reversible immobilization at low dose rates... A 5–15 mg dose is enough to immobilize an African elephant and a 2–4 mg dose is enough to immobilize a Black Rhino.”_

Jesus, if Jorge killed his wife, what the hell was he doing with something like this? Was he using it against the people he was smuggling in? Why this shit and not something more easily available, like, I don’t know, literally anything else? You hardly need this kind of stopping power to take down a 110-pound woman.

Or was it someone else entirely who drugged her? Someone who had to put her down before he could take her wherever he took her and killed her? That boy we found in the salvage yard, Oscar, he said he saw someone abduct Valerie Castillo, but he didn't recognize Jorge.

I can't fucking wait for Masuka's DEA list to come in tomorrow, because I know whose name isn't going to be on it...

Of course, whether it was Jorge or some shadowy stranger, it doesn’t exactly explain why _this_ drug.

I close the internet browser and go back to looking through Dexter's pictures. The M-99 in her system isn’t the only weird thing about her death. Everything about the way she's laid out is: clean and neat, a place setting in the middle of a trailer that probably hasn't seen use since around the time I was born. Even if he hated her, what kind of a person would clean out this junker, bring in a table, buy a tablecloth, set up his wife on it like this, and run? Why would he cut her cheek? Why would he drug her? He has a boat for god's sake. If he wanted her dead, why not just weight her and toss her in the ocean? Why leave her in his own salvage yard for whoever found her to find? Why make a spectacle out of her?

He wouldn't, because he didn't do it. I don't know where the fuck he is— hell, maybe he's dead too —but I can feel it as I look at these pictures. Someone else did this. Someone who wanted to do this, who found it exciting. He took his time creating a display, probably for the same reason the real Ice Truck Killer does: because it was fun.

I start scribbling this down on a random pad of paper.

The scenes are so similar in so many ways that, even though she wasn't cut up, I still can't get it out of my mind that Valerie Castillo's murder is somehow related to the Ice Truck Killer. The media coverage has been non-stop since Cassandra Mendoza was found in that pool. Like I told Doakes, I think this must be a copycat, some other sick fuck who's been inspired by all the grisly details the press has been jerking off to for the past month. He drugged her and he took her somewhere quiet to kill her, bled her out and cleaned her up, made that cut on her cheek as... what? A signature? Then he took her back to the place where he abducted her, took his time setting up the trailer and laying her out on the table out of some bizarre, demented expression of his psyche. Once he was done he left her there, for someone to find.

I pause.

Maybe it was for _us_ to find. Hell, it could’ve been him who called in the tip this morning. He wasn't quite as brave as the Ice Truck Killer. He didn't want to risk leaving her somewhere public for everyone to find, so he waited until he was good and far away, found one of the six functioning pay phones left in Miami, and called us so we could see her while she still looked as he left her: cold, dead, and pristine.

But why didn't he cut her up? If he really wanted to emulate the Ice Truck Killer, why did he leave her whole? That's the only thing that's not fitting. Maybe he was too squeamish to dismember her, or maybe he just didn't know exactly how he was supposed to do it, since we've withheld the specifics from the press.

But why Valerie Castillo? Of all the women for this guy to kill, how did he happen to choose a coyote? Did he just spot her coming off her boat or going for a jog outside her expensive home on Hibiscus Island? Or was she targeted by someone who knew who she was? Maybe a former business partner, someone who had watched her with Jorge Castillo for years, lusted after her—

I stop myself, remembering there were no signs of sexual assault. But then I write it down anyway, glance at the fat stack of reports we have on Jorge.

The department has already been investigating this guy for years, has even tried applying for warrants for his house and boat. He was brought over from Cuba when he was six, married Valerie five years ago. Did she know who he was when she married him? Had she been in the business already? Did it ever bother her what they were doing? Or was the money just too good to care?

Christ, I can still smell that damn latrine, the auto garage. A fucking holding pen. So far we haven't found any bodies, but we have found a van, and the inside of that thing lit up like Christmas under the blue light. Batista wasn't able to locate Jorge's boat today, and I'm curious to know what we're going to find on it when it does turn up. Valerie's little speedboat was found docked outside the house, and it's still in processing, but so far clean. Jorge's boat was much larger, supposedly for fishing but more than likely it was one of the vehicles he used to transport the immigrants around.

We've already gotten a call from the FBI. If any bodies do turn up we might end up losing this case to them— unless I'm right, and Valerie wasn't killed by her husband. And god do I want to be right about this.

I'm going to have to line up my ducks, see if I can't weave a story the same way my brother does about the night that Valerie Castillo died. If I can get the detectives on board with this, this could really turn into something.

I start flipping through the forensic reports.

Doesn't matter how long it takes. I'm not going to bed until I've got something I can pitch to LaGuerta.

 


	36. Treading Water

_ _

_Treading Water  
_ _Setting: “Return to Sender”_

* * *

I set my phone back in its cradle, cross off Bert Doggert. According to his office, the guy's currently vacationing in Australia with his wife and two kids, left two weeks ago. American Airlines confirmed a record of the flight.

Bust.

I look at the two other names I've already crossed off. A hundred-pound veterinarian in Tampa, a park ranger in the Everglades. Both have alibis, big shock. The DEA sent us everyone with a license in Florida.

I glance up from my paper, wondering how everyone else is doing. Ramos was moved off this and put onto a shooting in Coral Gables. Doakes is meeting with the FBI liaisons, since it looks like the Bureau is getting more and more interested in this case after we turned over all those papers we found at the Castillos' house. Lopez, Randall, Batista, and I are working the list. LaGuerta's... I glance toward her office, but she's still not in there. I guess she's still in with the kid trying to get a sketch. I still have to pitch her my theory.

As I'm looking I notice Dexter drinking something out of his mug, leaning over the counter in the break area. His gaze is trained on LaGuerta's office.

I purse my lips and look back down, still feeling annoyed with him. I can't believe him of all people shat all over my theory, especially given the rest of the department was interested in hearing it. When I saw him this morning I was so excited to tell him, so ready to hear him say that I was onto something. But instead he told me I was grasping for something that isn't there and to keep it to myself. And when Doakes invited me to propose my theory for the team, he walked away before I was even finished presenting it, not bothering to see how well it landed. Is he cheesed off that I didn't take his advice? I'd confront him about it, but I'd almost rather wait until something more turns up to prove me right, just so I can rub his nose in it for doubting me.

Is that petty?

I glance up again to see him drain his mug and move behind the wall. Whatever. Back to the list. I pull up the DMV tab and punch in Sonya Ellis of West Palm Beach. She's an obvious no— female, lives over an hour away, no record —but we've gotta follow up on everyone, especially with the FBI sniffing around. For all we know, the person who killed her was apart of this whole extortion ring, or could have married into it, like Valerie did. Is it the 30-something animal control operator with the mousy hair and the crooked smile? Probably not, but everyone gets put under a microscope when the feds come in.

I'm a lot more interested in the guys in the 20 to 40 range, but the detectives took all of them on the off chance that one of them is suspicious. I've been practically holding my breath waiting for someone to say they've got a name to follow up on, but so far zilcho.

I pull up Ellis' records, look for a telephone number, find one. I'm getting set to dial when Doakes comes in.

“Hey,” Batista says, stopping him. I glance over at the two of them, my finger still hovering above the dial pad. “How'd it go with the FBI?”

Doakes goes to his desk and sits. “It's still our case, for now, but the feds are handling the manhunt for Jorge Castillo. The guy's gone, probably back in fucking Cuba by now.”

Or he's dead. Murdered by our copycat.

I say nothing.

“How's it going with the DEA list?” he asks.

Batista shrugs. “About halfway through it. So far no hits.”

That's disappointing.

Doakes exhales. “Alright, give me a few of yours. By the end of the day let's get to the end of this list. Still nothing on Jorge's boat?”

Batista shakes his head. “Nope.”

He gets up and walks over, holding a sheet of paper. “It's probably with him in Cuba.”

“Wouldn't surprise me.”

Doakes crosses around Batista and leans over the detective's page. “Those four,” he says, pointing. When he glances up he catches me looking. “You find anything, Morgan?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

He looks less than surprised. “Well, keep with it.”

I nod. As Doakes heads back to his desk I notice Dexter reemerge from his office and walk toward LaGuerta's. He glances through the glass, then turns and moves away, in the direction of the interview rooms, which is where she probably still is. I wonder what he wants with her, even though it's probably got nothing to do with me.

I look back at my computer, at Sonya Ellis' records. After a moment's pause, I dial the provided number. “DPS Wildlife Animal Removal,” some guy answers eventually.

“Hello, do you have a Sonya Ellis on staff?” I ask.

“We do.” I hear him adjust the phone or something. “She's out on a call now though. Want to leave her a message?”

I say yes, identify myself and give my number, then hang up. I would be amazed if she doesn't check out.

I type in the next name. Second to last. As I scroll through records it suddenly hits me that I desperately need a toilet break, which isn't that surprising since I've had like four coffees and a Red Bull just to keep my energy levels up after having spent most of the night working on the profile.

I push out of my chair, head for the bathroom.  
The lists are almost exhausted. We could go for the tri-state area, but our guy— _my_ guy —may not be on any list. Who knows how extensively this M-99 stuff is trafficked, but if it was obtained illegally then we're basically down to square one to find him. All we've got is my profile, and maybe that sketch if it turns out to be anything. No trace, no nothing. Which is basically where we are with the Ice Truck Killer too, with the exception of the print on the lozenge wrapper. Come to think of it, these two guys match up on more points than just the MO of their victims. The Ice Truck Killer's also almost certainly a single, white male in his mid-30s, living alone and disconnected from his feelings. Totally meticulous, and probably familiar with forensic protocol beyond just having watched a few episodes of _Law & Order_, given he's left us nothing through ten different scenes. They may not be the same guy, but I’m convinced they’d both be caught in the same net.

I turn the knob, open the door with my shoulder.

If this DEA list turns out to be a bust, I might look into the people put on the ITK suspect list. Might give us something new to work off, something in a different direction. Who knows, something could shake out.

I head for a stall, thoughts buzzing between the caffeine and the want for something to break. I think I'm starting to get a headache.

 


	37. Invitation

_ _

_Invitation  
_ _Setting: “Return to Sender”_

* * *

I sit at my desk, staring down at everything. I was so, so sure. I was _positive_ that we were looking at a copycat, maybe even the start of a whole new slew of killings, but it was just the husband all along.

I keep looking between the boy's sketch and a blown-up shot of Jorge Castillo, trying to see the resemblance, but like everyone else all I can see in the drawing is Jesus. Dexter must be right: the kid must've been too dehydrated and confused to register what he'd been seeing that night. Maybe all he saw was shadows, and in order to understand what he saw he put a face and a figure to it. God saved him from whatever it was that the Castillos had planned for him.

His story was my best evidence in support of the copycat theory, besides just my interpretation of the scene. A stranger in the salvage yard was the idea I built my argument on. And now there's a bloody knife and a bloody sock. In the course of a morning, everything I've built has collapsed around me.

Maybe I was just grasping. My life's been the Ice Truck killings for weeks and weeks and weeks. Maybe I saw him there because I wanted to, because at the moment that’s all I can see. I guess, really, what were the chances that my second homicide case would turn out to be a copycat of the first?

Still, that scene, the way she was laid out: the table, the checkered table cloth, the cut on her cheek. It was so—

“Hey.”

Something plunks down to my right, breaking through my stream of consciousness, and I look over to see Dexter sitting there beside me. I feel my face crunch into a scowl. “If you've come to gloat, do me a favor and fuck off,” I say.

“Why would I do that?” he says. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

I just look at him, not sure how to interpret that. “Then what do you want?” I ask.

“I was just wondering if you'd want to come to Astor's birthday party today.”

There's something vaguely touching about the invitation that takes me aback, but at the same time that's not really where I want to be. “I don't know, Dex,” I hedge. “It's kind of late notice. Besides, there's still a fuckton and a half to do on this case, assuming it's even still ours.”

“Come on,” he says, apparently completely oblivious to how annoyed with him I am. “It's one evening. They'll get along fine without you.”

That wasn't the right thing to say. I feel another jab of annoyance.

“Besides, with how much overtime you've been putting in lately, I'm sure the lieutenant will let you take off a few hours early.”

“This coming from the guy who told me she'd drop kick me back to Vice if I presented my copycat theory to her?”

He pauses, finally seeming to hear my tone. “Listen, I'm sorry the case turned out this way, I really am, and I'm sorry I said what I did. It was a good theory. I'll admit that when I first walked into that trailer, I didn't think it was the husband either—”

I don't want to hear his 'but.' “It's fine,” I say to preempt it. “I've let it go.” Or I'm letting it go, anyway.

I’m in the _process_ of letting it go.

“So can I tell Rita yes?”

Of course he’s gotta drop her fucking name. “I don't have a gift,” I say, groping for an excuse, not really wanting to spend the evening with him and a bunch of kids.

“Don't worry about it,” he says. “You can put your name on mine if you want.”

I exhale, not wanting to give in, but I can feel myself caving. Dammit.

“There'll be cake,” he says, just to twist the knife. “Coconut Dream cake. Rita made it. And there'll be snacks, brownies, bowls of fruit, whatever the other moms brought.” He pauses. “And Rita’s got beer in her fridge.”

Sometimes I really fucking hate him.

“Come on,” he says, knowing he has me. “It'll be fun.”

I physically feel myself crack. “Fine.” I hold up my hands. “I'll go. You happy?”

He smiles. “Very.”

I glower at him. “What time do I need to be there?”

“4:30.”

“Okay, go away.” I shoo at him. “I'll see you there if LaGuerta okays it.”

“Alright, sister.” He's still smiling as he gets up and goes back to his office. His second victory of the day, and my second defeat.

The fucker...

I exhale, look back down at all the papers on my desk, at my profile and that list I got from the FBI, feeling utterly defeated. So much work, so much energy, wasted. Maybe Doakes was right about me being too green. I wonder what Dad would've said about all this.

“Buck up, Morgan,” I hear from across the room, and I glance back up to see Doakes looking at me from his desk. “It's okay your copycat theory didn't pan out. Trust me, you're not getting bounced back to Vice for having ideas.”

I meet his gaze. So he was listening to our conversation.

I'm glad no one seems to be holding my zealousness against me, not even LaGuerta, but I really don't want to talk about it. “What's going on with the FBI?” I ask.

“Jorge's still our arrest to make,” he says, “but that doesn't mean the feds won't offer him a deal for information on his ring once he does turn up.”

I lean back. “Why do you think he killed her?”

“I'm still going with money.”

“Tried and true,” I mutter. Right up there with 'The husband did it.' “But why did he leave her body like that? And who called us to the scene?”

He shrugs. “Who knows? They were a couple of sick motherfuckers. Maybe it was his way of saying one final fuck you to her.”

I sigh, still struggling to accept the fact that this turned out to be so simple. “Want to grab lunch and finish our reports?”

He almost grins at me, which looks weird on his face. “Not saving room for cake, Morgan?”

“Fuck off, I didn't eat this morning,” I say, getting up. “I'm gonna go talk to LaGuerta, then I'm going to the food truck. You can join if you want.”

“You still buying?” he asks.

I remember my offer from this morning, which really wasn't that long ago, when I'd been so sure I had found us a new lead to chase. “No,” I say flatly.

I hear him snort as I make my way past him toward LaGuerta's office. She's in there scribbling away, probably working on the press release on Jorge Castillo. The guy's been in the paper for two days courtesy of his involvement with human smuggling, but now we can officially tack murder onto his laundry list of offenses too.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant?” I say, knocking on her open door.

“Morgan,” she says, looking up. “How can I help you?”

I'm not sure if I'm hoping she'll say yes or no. “I know it's short notice, but I was wondering if I could leave around 3:30 today. Dexter's girlfriend, Rita, her daughter's having a birthday and they invited me.”

“That's fine,” she says immediately, which sort of surprises me. “Just try to have everything done before you go.”

“That won't be a problem,” I say. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to have this done in...” she glances at her watch, “fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah,” I say, then quickly leave. That was surprisingly painless. Maybe despite what she said yesterday she's growing to be okay with me, or, at the least, just moving away from open hostility.

As I step out I notice Dexter watching me through his blinds. When I meet his eyes he mouths 'So?' Begrudgingly, I give him a thumbs up, then return to my desk for my purse, feeling hungry and irritable. Doakes appears at my elbow as I throw it over my shoulder. “Alright,” he says. “Let's have lunch, finish up our reports together.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say.

We walk to the elevator, but don’t say anything more to each other as we wait for it, then step inside. As we descend I can't help but be a little glad, despite myself, for the evening I suddenly have off, if anything just because it'll give me some time to pull my head out of my ass over Valerie Castillo. I need a break, to spend a little time with some non-cops. God knows Doakes' family were basically the only real people I've interacted with since Sean.

Besides, like Dexter said, there'll be cake...

 


	38. Picnic Bench

_ _

_Picnic Bench  
_ _Setting: “Return to Sender”_

* * *

I can feel myself sweating as I slowly hunt around the lawn for random bits of paper and wayward plates and forks. At some point in the last hour, the humidity climbed up to a thousand percent, and dark, heavy clouds have pretty much filled up the sky in every direction. It's not raining yet, but at this point 'yet' is just an operative word.

Shit, I hope my umbrella’s still in the car. It wouldn’t surprise me if I forgot to put it back.

I catch sight of one of the plastic glasses with the nose and the eyebrows on a palm frond, pull it off. Just below it is a glop of icing and a plastic fork. I pick that up too.

“Hey, you don't have to do that,” I hear from behind me, and I glance back to see Rita walking toward me holding a trash bag.

“It's fine,” I say, tossing the fork and the other random crap I've collected into her bag. “Honestly, I kind of needed a break.”

She smiles. “I understand. It's hard enough having two kids hopped up on sugar, but nine?”

“Yeah, especially after five of them asked how many criminals I've killed and if they could see my gun.” Not to mention the mothers. All of them must be rabid Nancy Grace fans.

She snorts. “Sorry about that.”

“It's fine.” I wave it off, set the glasses on the table and take a seat. “I don't know how you can keep up with them.”

“Oh, sometimes I don't.” She sits across from me. “And I wanted to thank you again for coming over. I know Dexter's said you've been working like a dog lately.”

“Has he?” I say, glancing toward the house. Before I stepped out he was entertaining Cody with some game on the TV.

“Yeah, and I've seen all the news lately. Dexter told me you were the one who found that guard?”

Immediately, I think of that basement: Tucci and the rats and the bed, the smell of iron and piss. His blood, soaked into the sheets. “Yeah,” I say, and leave it at that. Rita doesn't need that kind of imagery in her life.

“I don't know how you can do it, see what you see every day,” she says. “You or Dexter.”

I shrug. “I don't know. Our dad was a homicide cop, and he never really left it at the office. I'm not sure he realized exactly how much we both grew up with it.” I cross my arms on the table, wanting to steer the conversation away from the case and my father. “So how're you doing?” I ask.

“Oh, you know...” She trails off, and her expression seems to fall. “Actually, Paul called a few days ago,” she says after a beat. “He was just released from prison. Overcrowding, apparently.”

I feel a ping in my chest. I sit up. “What? Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Her gaze slips down. “He actually wanted to come today, to the party. I threatened him, reminded him of the restraining order, but who knows how long that'll stop him.”

“Shit.” I reach over and gently squeeze her hand. She looks up. “Listen,” I say, “you ever feel threatened and need me to bring some heat down on his ass, just call me.”

She smiles again. “Oh, I... thanks, but for now I just want to play this by ear. Cody, you know, he doesn't remember much of it, but Astor does. I don't want to put her through all that again— having to watch her father get dragged out of here in cuffs. Not unless it comes to it.”

I nod. “I understand, but, hey, you've got my number. Just know I'm here if it does come to it.”

“Thanks.” She squeezes my hand back. “I admit, having both Dexter and you here made me feel better about this party, since I'm still not sure he won't decide to show up. By the way,” she changes the subject in the same breath, “what's going on with you two? Dexter, I mean.”

“Oh, it's nothing.” I slide back my hand, making a sort of waving gesture. “We had a disagreement over a case. He was right. I was...” I trail off as the person in question opens the door and pops his head out. “Speak of the devil,” I mutter.

“Deb,” he says, waggling something in his hand. “Doakes called. Twice.”

I can't help but feel some slight, automatic annoyance that he went pawing through my purse, but I shove it down. “Oh, yeah?” I say, sliding off the bench and walking to him. “What's he want?”

“I don't know,” he says. “I didn't catch it in time.”

“Hm.” I take my phone from him. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” he says, then looks at me for an awkward moment before I step away for a corner of the lawn and hit redial. He walks over to Rita, and I hear them talking quietly as I press the phone to my ear.

“Doakes,” his brusque voice answers by the second ring.

“It's Morgan,” I say. “What's up? You miss me already?”

“No,” he says, sounding so matter of fact I'd feel hurt if I wasn't being sarcastic anyway. “I know you took the evening, but you might want to get down here.”

“Get down where?” I hold my free palm up to check for rain. The air is so moist I can't tell if it's started sprinkling or not.

“Back to the station. Harbor Patrol finally found Jorge Castillo's boat. They're towing it back to our dock now.”

I refocus on the phone. “Is there more evidence on it to incriminate him for killing his wife?”

“We don't know yet, but we definitely found enough to implicate him in at least three other homicides.”

Now he's got my full attention. “Three?” I repeat.

“There are bodies in his boat. At least three were floating up at the top of his cargo hold, but who knows how many more people are in there.”

“Holy fuck,” I mutter. “Yeah, alright, I'll be there soon.”

“We'll be at the docks.”

We click off, and I just sort of stare off for a second, trying to process what he told me. Three bodies, maybe more. Jorge's been under investigation for a long time in connection to the smuggling and disappearances of immigrants, but now suddenly we've got the corpses to prove it, not to mention enough forensics on his wife to convince a jury. When this guy finally gets popped he's gonna get buried under a fuckton and a half of charges. He’ll be lucky to escape the death penalty.

I turn and walk back over to the table. Dexter looks up as I approach. “What's going on?” he asks.

I look at him. He's got that brow thing going again. “Harbor Patrol found Jorge's boat. And you'll never guess what they found inside.”

“What?” he says.

“Bodies.” I look at Rita. “Sorry to take off like this,” I say to her, “but I've gotta get back to the station.”

“Oh, no, it's fine,” she says. “I'm just glad you came.” She walks around the table and gives me a brief hug. “It was nice to see you.”

“It was nice to see you too,” I say as she releases me, then I glance at my brother. “See you tomorrow, Dex,” I say a bit more icily before I turn and head for the door.

I hear footfalls following, then Dexter's voice, “Doakes didn't request me?”

I shrug. “Nope.” Open the door. Astor and her friends are all sitting in a circle where the dining room table, and my purse, used to be. The table's now pressed against the wall. I go to it and grab my bag, all the while ignoring my brother.

“How long are you going to be mad at me?” Dexter asks me quietly when I turn around.

I look at him, slinging it over my shoulder. “I'm not mad, I...” I don't know. Is it even right that I'm annoyed with him for disagreeing with me?

“What?” he prompts.

I shrug. “It's fine. We’re fine. I'm overreacting. We were both just doing our jobs.”

“So everything's fine?”

“Peachy fu...” I stop, glance at all the minors sitting four feet away from us. “Yep, everything's fine,” I revise. “I'll see you tomorrow, brother.” I make for the door.

“Bye,” he calls after me.

I reach the front door, open it, step out, close it. Exhale. Forty seconds later I'm putting on my seat belt and turning over the engine. Then I flip on my lights, pull away from the mini van and the baby blue SUV, coast off the quiet, suburban street.

It finally starts to rain as I head toward the station, as the sky above coalesces into one, thick blanket of grey. Seems like an appropriate scene for whatever it is that's waiting for me back at Miami Metro. I'm not exactly sure what Doakes meant by 'floating in the cargo hold,' but I guess I'm going to find out soon enough.

I wonder what this means for our jurisdiction over Jorge Castillo. If the dead people in his boat are indeed Cuban immigrants, we're likely turning everything over to the feds. I can't honestly say I'd be too disappointed about that. As terrible as it is, I don't feel much of anything for Valerie Castillo. I wouldn't say she deserved to be butchered like a pig and left naked and supine in the middle of a salvage yard, but I'm not sure she deserves to take much more of our department's time either. Let the FBI deal with Jorge. We've already got one sick fuck to find.

I merge onto the freeway for downtown, turn up the wipers another notch. The rain's already coming down harder.

 


	39. Shifting Gears

_ _

_Shifting Gears  
_ _Setting: “Return to Sender”_

* * *

It's been raining for almost two days straight, and it's supposed to keep on going through tomorrow night.

I exhale and take another sip of coffee as I look out the window. The government parking lot outside is looking like a big, black puddle, even more so than it did when we got here. I'm not looking forward to going back out there. I still haven't quite dried out from the walk inside.

I turn and lean against the wall, not wanting to look anymore. The lobby in front of me reminds me vaguely of the pediatrician’s office I used to go to when I was a kid, with wallpaper, paintings, and furnishings that haven’t been updated since the mid-80s. The halls and offices beyond have been modernized more recently— white walls and steel, post-90s chic —but from where I'm standing it would be virtually impossible to guess that this is an FBI field office. Maybe that's the point.

I get off the wall as a door opens and Doakes steps out, throwing on his jacket. After we left the meeting with the agents he went to go use the little boy's room before we start the trek back to the station.

He nods at me as he walks over, and we turn for the elevator together. “So that's it?” I ask quietly when we reach it.

“What's it?” he rumbles.

“That's the end of it? We just hand them their entire case and walk away?”

He glances at me. “Yeah.”

“And that doesn't bother you?”

He shrugs. “Pick your battles, Morgan. Frankly, they've got jurisdiction over this, and if Jorge really has fled back to Cuba, as far as both me and the department are concerned they can keep this fucking case. That's at least six names we can erase off our boards and our stats.”

“But we did all the leg work,” I gripe as the elevator doors open. We step inside together.

“Sometimes that's just how shit shakes out,” he says.

I purse my lips, then unbutton my umbrella, push it loose. When the doors open we walk into a large, airy, and completely bland lobby: white tile scuffed and dirtied by wet shoe prints, big, double-paned glass windows, white walls decorated with tall, generic art prints. Outside I can see palm fronds being whipped around by wind and rain.

That's just great.

Doakes goes straight for the doors, apparently not giving anymore of a shit about the weather than he does about the FBI taking our case— no hood, no umbrella. Probably another army thing. I stop in the doorway and push open my umbrella before chasing after him, hopping over a couple puddles as I go. After climbing into the passenger side of his car, I toss the umbrella in the back, then flip on the heat. Push back my damp hair and clip my seat belt on.

Doakes says nothing as he makes his way back downtown, and I don’t either. I'm already getting used to his extended silences. Frankly, all things considered, he and I aren't too bad a match as partners go. Neither of us have any patience for bullshit, and he doesn't seem to care how I talk to him.

Still, I wonder how he does feel about these last few days. It was one thing when this was just a wife-killing, but then there were five bodies in the storage of that boat. Two women over 50, both of whom the coroner said had had children; a young, kind of sweet-looking kid in his mid-20s; a moustachioed man in the 65-plus age range; and a 32-year-old guy we actually were able to ID since he had written contact information for his sister on the inside of a shirt cuff. We spent a good part of yesterday tracking her down, then getting her to trust us enough to open the door. From her behavior I can only assume she's either illegal or on an expired visa, but since Doakes didn't seem to care, I didn't either. Honestly, with five bodies, it was a relief to be able to make at least one identification, even if it was indescribably horrible to sit on that cheap, threadbare couch in that tiny, airless apartment, watching this woman dissolve into tears on her husband's shoulder. She was his older sister, and only sibling.

I just hope the FBI leaves her and her family alone. The last thing she needs after all this is to be shipped back to Cuba.

I glance at Doakes. He ground his teeth the whole ride back from that visit, but by the end of the day he seemed back to his usual, grouchy self. I wonder how many years and how many moments like that it took for everything to start blurring into the background, for it to be easy to turn over a case like this to another agency that barely lifted a finger to help us with the ground work. I've always imagined myself eventually being like him, like Dad, but right now that image seems totally out of whack with who I am. It took everything I had yesterday to keep my voice steady as we wrapped up that conversation.

I refocus on the rain being rhythmically slammed to the bottom of the windshield. Doakes is right though: it's a blessing to have this case off the department's shoulders, since we're still neck deep in all this Ice Truck Killer shit and we don't need to add something as complicated and politically charged as a coyote and his murdered wife, as well as the five dead Cuban immigrants in his boat, to the mix. As it is, there's been nothing new from the Ice Truck Killer in almost two weeks, since I found Tucci in that basement. The press seems to be getting bored already with calling the department a group of incompetent fucks— today was the third day in a row I didn't see anything in the paper or on the news about the murders. In contrast, I've been finding myself holding my breath as each days passes. I don't know why he’s suddenly stopped, and I don't know how long that's going to last, or how he's planning to resurface, but I don't want to wait to find out. I want to find him first.

I adjust my seat belt and recross my legs, suddenly craving a cigarette.

I just don't know how I'm going to do that. Not yet, anyway.

 


	40. Benched

_ _

_Benched  
_ _Setting: “Circle of Friends”_

* * *

I click lazily through the links and scroll, head on my hand. I don't know what's more disturbing: all this shit I'm reading or the fact that it's all so readily available to find. Fucking murderpedias and newspaper articles and quotes and videos and social media. So many people have a fucking hard-on for serial killers and it gives me the creeps. Hunting the Ice Truck Killer has brought me close to this kind of evil, and I know that now that I'm in Homicide I'm only going to keep getting closer. These fucknuts deserve to be buried by history, not celebrated. There's something demented about all this.

What was it my old psych prof used to say? Everyone's got a fetish, and the world is steeped in its pornographers...

_At the scene of the Moskowitz and Violante shooting, a local resident named Cecilia Davis had been walking her dog when she saw a parked car being ticketed near a fire hydrant... Davis stayed silent about this experience for four days until she finally contacted police, who closely checked every car that had been ticketed in the area that night. Berkowitz's 1970 four-door yellow Ford Galaxie was among the cars they investigated..._

So, what, if the fucker had moved another street up when he was looking for parking, he might not have been caught? He might’ve killed who knows how many more?

I glance up at some slight movement in my periphery just as LaGuerta opens the door. “James,” she says as she walks out, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “There's been a stabbing down in Wynwood. I’ve got the address for you.” She holds out a slip of paper. “Uniforms on scene identified the victim as Derrick Mitchell. Take Dexter. There's a lot of blood.”

Doakes rises and takes the paper. I get up too, stretching and shrugging into my blazer. I mean, it's kind of late, but I'm not exactly having to cancel anything so...

“Pullman,” LaGuerta turns and looks at the detective. “You're with Doakes.” When he nods, she looks back at Doakes. “Tread lightly. The Mitchells have a sister-in-law in the DA's office— Kathy Barnett.”

I stand here stupidly, not sure what just happened. Doakes glances at me and I dip my eyebrows, make a what-the-fuck gesture.

Before I can decide if I want to say anything, LaGuerta looks at me. “Morgan,” she says. “Go home. It's late.”

I open my mouth, but Doakes shoots me a look that makes me close it. With effort.

“See you all tomorrow,” she says, walking away.

I feel rooted to the spot as I watch her head to the elevator. Behind me I can hear Pullman start to shuffle things around on his desk, and then Doakes appears at my side.

“What the fuck was that?” I ask as the elevator doors close and LaGuerta disappears behind them. “I thought I was your partner.”

“Don't take it personally, Morgan,” he says. “If there's one thing you've gotta get used to around here, it's politics. Kathy Barnett's got a lot of pull with the DA.”

I separate my molars, take a cleansing breath. “Fine, I get it,” I say, dropping back into my seat. Doesn't mean I have to like it though. Fuck I hate being benched, especially since I— _we_ —lost the Castillo case.

“She's right though,” he continues, ignoring my petulance. “It's late. Head home. At least one of us'll be asleep by 1. Always takes fucking forever to close a stabbing.” He says all this while looking in the direction of Dexter and Masuka's area. He then nods and makes a two-fingered 'come here' gesture, which is quickly followed by the sound of a door opening.

“What's up, Sergeant?” Dexter asks as he approaches. I swivel slightly in my seat and cross my legs.

“Stabbing,” Doakes says. “Get your shit together. I wanna be out of here in three minutes.”

“My shit's always together,” my brother says breezily. “Got an address?”

“Northwest 37th and 1st.” He pauses. “We'll meet you there. See you tomorrow, Morgan,” he directs to me, then stalks off. Pullman quickly moves to join him. And then it's just me and Dexter in the bullpin, watching them disappear behind the stairwell door.

“You're not coming?” my brother asks.

“I wasn't invited,” I say, not trying to not sound annoyed.

He shrug. “Hey, there are worse things than not having to pull a late shift.”

He's not helping. “Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Go. Have fun at your stabbing.”

“I always do.” He flashes me a little smile, then goes back to his office. Forty seconds later he's walking out again with his shoulder bag and his camera case. “Night, sister,” he says, tossing me a wave as he walks by my desk.

“Bye.” I wave too. As he heads away I slump back onto my hand, look at my screen.

David Berkowitz.

Fuck it, I don’t feel like leaving yet.

I ex out the tab, click on the one I had open earlier for Timothy McVeigh. Skim.

_Trooper Charlie Hanger...was about 75 miles from the disaster area when he noticed a beat-up 1977 Mercury Grand Marquis. What caught his attention was the yellow car's lack of a license plate..._

_He pulled the driver over and got out of his patrol car... McVeigh explained he'd just bought the car. When Hanger asked if he had insurance, registration, or a bill of sale McVeigh explained everything was being mailed to his address... Hanger noticed a bulge under McVeigh's jacket...confiscated the 9-mm Glock that McVeigh was packing, as well as an ammo clip and a knife... After confirming McVeigh had no record, he explained that McVeigh's New York concealed-weapon permit was not legal in Oklahoma...taking McVeigh to the Noble County Jail in Perry, Oklahoma... At the jail, McVeigh was booked on four misdemeanor charges... At Washington's National Crime Information Center, computers generated a report: Trooper Hanger had also run a report on McVeigh. Noble County Sheriff Jerry Cook confirmed they were holding McVeigh on unrelated charges..._

So much happenstance. Joel Rifkin was also driving around without plates. Wayne Williams was caught returning to a bridge near an old crime scene. Ted Bundy was arrested for not pulling over for a traffic stop. Randy Kraft was pulled over for driving erratically and patrol ended up finding a corpse in his passenger seat. Dennis Nilsen was caught because he was fucking flushing body parts down the toilet and it backed up the sewage.

Somehow I can't see the Ice Truck Killer making the same kind of mistake, but at this point I'm willing to try anything.

I close out the internet and open up DMV, then get off my hand to thumb through all the Ice Truck Killer folders I'm leaning on. Pull out the first case, Tami Burgess. When I open up the folder and see the crime scene photos I can still remember the ninety seconds that I spent beyond the tape there, that precise moment when I looked down and saw all those body parts wrapped up in brown paper. That was over six months ago now.

I find the address and type it in, then do the same for all the other crime scenes, including all the places we found Tucci's body parts. Then I start cross-checking names between the ten of them, sinking slowly back onto my hand.

God this is pathetic. We may have a partial print, but as long as this guy stays out of booking we won't have anything to match it to.

My eyes blur slightly as I go back and forth. Between the thunderstorm and my neighbor's decision to throw a party until 4 in the morning on a weekday, I slept piss poor last night.

I blink, refocus, keep on checking the names on one list against the names on the others. If just one name shows up twice it could mean something. Maybe.

But... nothing.

I sigh as I check the last name, feeling tired and discouraged, then I just start clicking through each name one by one, hoping to find a criminal record, something interesting.

Time passes. The air conditioning unit kicks on. Distantly, sirens fade into the background. Somewhere in Wynwood my (supposed) partner and my brother are at a crime scene, standing over a body. Doing their jobs. And I'm sitting here.

And then I run out of names.

I close my eyes.

I should go home, but I don't want to. I have to find something, anything, on the Ice Truck Killer, something that somehow everyone else missed. So far this is my only idea beyond chasing the shit that's still occasionally streaming into the tip lines. Maybe if I'm not getting him off parking violations I can widen the net, or search a different grid. What about around the Botanica? (though, really, how often does patrol put out traffic citations in that area...)

I feel myself slump, snap back up.

Shit.

I push to my feet, feeling tired. My first impulse is to grab some coffee or a Red Bull, keep on powering through it, but my gaze falls on LaGuerta's office, and for some reason I think longingly of her couch. I've seen it a hundred times, but I've never actually sat on the damn thing.

I wonder how comfortable it is... probably better than this fucking chair.

I walk over and open the door, stand here for a second. The couch suddenly seems like the most inviting thing on the face of the planet, and I find myself taking off my blazer and walking to it, dropping onto the cushions.

Sleepiness hits me like a wave, and I press my hand into the leather, feeling my eyelids itch. I mean, fuck it, nobody's here but the cleaning crew, and nobody's gonna give a shit. I can take a nap and get right back to searching for citations around the crime scenes after.

I let myself lay down, throw my blazer over my side like a blanket, close my eyes.

Just for... well, however long until I wake up.

 


	41. Hail Mary

_ _

_Hail Mary  
_ _Setting: “Circle of Friends”_

* * *

I’m still coasting on the adrenaline high as I pace behind Batista, my heart pulsing in my throat, my blood buzzing from my fingertips to my legs. And I’m trying to keep the steady stream of fucks inside my head from coming out of my mouth.

“Yep, it's dead,” he says eventually, rising from the tire with a grunt.

“Fuck,” one slips out.

He doesn’t reply, and I keep pacing as he moves around to the trunk and pops it open.

“Jesus christ, Angel,” I say after a couple beats, stopping beside him. “Did we just find him? Is Neil Perry the fucking Ice Truck Killer?”

Batista opens the the bottom of the trunk, glances at me. “I don't know.”

“Come on,” I say, crossing my arms. “He took one look at us and fucking bolted for the hills.”

“Let's just... take it slow here,” he says, making a placating gesture. “I admit, this is suspicious as hell, but we've gotta keep a level head here. We can't afford another Tony Tucci.”

“I never believed Tucci was a suspect from the start. And neither did you. But this...” I take a long breath, to slow my heart and my thoughts, “this fucking stinks.”

He looks like he's about to agree with me, but then his phone rings. “This is Batista,” he answers. After a pause, “Lieutenant, we may have a lead on the Ice Truck Killer.”

I fidget as LaGuerta's tinny voice responds. Fuck, I can't believe this. Some random fucking hail mary brought us here.

“Yeah, Morgan was running moving violations near the crime scenes, ended up recognizing someone on the list. Neil Perry.”

I walked that motherfucker out of the precinct. I helped interview him. All I really remember about him was that he seemed like a total math club geek, and that he had the weird, kind of aggravating energy of a guy who probably lives in a basement and has never touched a willing woman. Not to mention the fish lips. But now that I'm standing here I also remember him asking me about the hospital, if I'd seen 'that security guard,' if it had been 'traumatic.' By the time I escorted him out of the precinct I found myself agreeing with Doakes about him being full of shit.

And maybe he was, but for different reasons. He never saw some shadowy guy with a cap around the hospital that night, and living all the way out here he sure as shit wouldn't have been taking a walk around it in the middle of the night. And...

I turn around, walk up to and around the thing I can only loosely describe as a house.

Big surprise, no sign of a dog— no water bowls, no fencing, no barking, no paw prints in the dirt. Perry lied about being there that night, but why the fuck would he do that? Why would he have come in as a voluntary witness? Was it really just for the attention, as Doakes thought?

I think of all the Wikipedia pages and true crime sites I was on last night, all those serial killers who sent letters and notes to the police. Think back to old lectures in my criminology classes. Was Perry just mocking us? Me?

I stop behind the rusty tin box, push my boot against what feels like a concrete slab covered by a carpet of faux grass.

I haven't stopped wondering if it was the Ice Truck Killer who called me to the hospital that night. Was it Perry? Did he know who I was when I walked into that interview room? Did he ask if I had seen Tucci because he was the one who baited me into going out there in the first place, because he wanted me to be the one to find him?

Jesus, how did I not sense anything _that_ off about the guy? Or Doakes? How did he walk through a precinct full of cops without ringing a single bell?

I look at the newspaper-covered windows, the half a deer skull hanging near the back door. Fucking bottles of barbecue sauce and beer, wood pallets, shitty lawn decorations, car parts and trash, the patio furniture on the random square of plastic grass. Even if we weren't here hunting a serial killer I'd've taken one look at this place and thought for sure that whoever lived here clearly had a screw loose. Or ten.

“Morgan,” I hear, and I turn around as Batista walks up to me. “Patrol will be here in a few minutes to secure the property. LaGuerta wants us back at the station as soon as we change the flat. She's calling everyone in.”

“What?” I say. “We're not staying?”

“It'll take us a few hours to get the search warrant,” he says. “And if this lead is as good as it feels, LaGuerta's gotta plan our next moves carefully, probably set up a task force to find him, especially if he's fleeing for the border.”

“I can't fucking believe he got away from us.” From me. I look in the direction Perry disappeared with a fresh pang of frustration.

“Don't start beating yourself up yet,” Batista says. “It's been six minutes since we found him, and LaGuerta's already started freezing his assets and sending out BOLOs to every cop, bank, bus, plane, and train station in Florida. He'll probably make the 12 o'clock news. Believe me, this cocksucker's not gonna get far.”

Pessimistically, I think of Jorge Castillo, who disappeared off the face of the planet. I have no idea if the FBI is any closer to finding him than we were.

But I'm not going to mention it. “Would you look at this fucking shithole?” I ask instead, glancing around.

The sun reflects off his glasses as he follows my line of sight to the row of junker cars parked alongside overgrown hedges. Just beyond the bushes I can see run-down pink bungalows and chain-link fencing. To the right and behind the trailer is just a whole lot of dirt and what looks like vacant mobile homes.

We might as well be standing in the middle of a desert. Perry could've been doing anything out here and no one would've known. No one around to hear you scream...

I turn again, find myself walking toward the station wagon.

Is this the vehicle he picked them up in? Was Cherry dragged out of this car and killed somewhere near where I'm standing? The other girls? Was all this scrub and rusted cars the last shit they saw?

The sound of sirens attract my attention, and I move away from the car to see an enormous dust cloud heading in our direction. Within moments, four patrol units are pulling in, and they park haphazardly around us as Batista and I make our way in front of the trailer. They all kill their sirens at once, and the silence seems to ring as Batista crunches his way toward the nearest car.

I hang back, listen to him give his orders while I continue to scan the scene, my thoughts bouncing with my pulse. This is all happening so fast: one little break and suddenly the whole floor seems to be collapsing beneath this case.

And I found it.

_I found the fucking Ice Truck Killer._

I refocus as one of the uniforms makes their way toward the trunk of our car with Batista, and I walk over to them. “Need any help?” I ask, as the former pulls the tire out.

Batista glances back at me, and I don't know if I'm insulted or not to see the skepticism on his face. “Don't worry about it,” he says.

“Alright,” I say, deciding not to pursue it.

I watch him and the officer start working on the tire for a moment, but my attention drifts quickly, and before I've even finished processing the thought I'm already heading back to the station wagon. When I get there, I glance through the windows, looking for... I don't know what. The thing is filled with trash and shirts and what looks like CDs, but, from what I can tell, no body parts.

I turn, look at the newspaper-covered windows, at all the junk all over the grounds. It's hard to imagine that those perfect, meticulous crime scenes were produced by someone who seems, somehow, to be even more slovenly than me, but it's starting to seem like that might be the case.

Jesus, I can't wait for that warrant to come through. I want to know what's behind those windows.

Almost as much as I don't.

 


	42. Tomorrow

_ _

_Tomorrow  
_ _Setting: “Circle of Friends”_

* * *

I collapse onto my bed, and for awhile I lay here, splayed out on my comforter, my boots hanging off the edge, my gun and cuffs digging into my lower back.

What a fucking day.

When I feel like I can move again, I arch up, remove the holster and the cuff pouch and set them next to me on the bed, then pull my knee to my stomach, roll up my pant leg and unzip my boot, toss it to the floor. The other boot and my socks join it a few seconds later, and then I settle back down, stare up at the ceiling.

Neil Perry is the fucking Ice Truck Killer. I still can barely process it. The trailer with all that stuffed roadkill, the crime scene pictures, the newspaper clippings, the ton and a half of bondage and rape porn, all those bookmarks that were practically a how-to on dismemberment and murder ( _Civil War operation techniques, The History of Torture, Butchering the Human Carcass, The medical art of bloodletting, Blood and the human heart..._ ). That whole fucking trailer smelled like formaldehyde and bleach, dead animals everywhere. The bed with the stuffed lamb— what, did he fucking sleep with it?

And all those crime scene pictures... They looked eerily similar to the ones we have on record, almost identical, and there were so many of them. Pictures from every angle of all the girls he killed, so he could relive his displays in full color. But there was nothing in the set of Tony Tucci, and no pictures of his victims outside of where he dumped them. We still don't know where he killed those girls. None of us really believe he did the bloodletting in his trailer— too small, too cluttered, and so far all the blood found has been identified as animal —so for all we know he's hiding out wherever he took his victims.

It's not to say he couldn't have done it there. Except for the animal blood, the place was weirdly clean— no prints anywhere, at all, not even on door knobs or the sinks or the toilet. It's possible that Perry wasn't actually living there at all, that it was just his workshop. We really don't know, since the stream from his camera doesn't seem to be feeding into anything in the trailer. Maybe it was just a decoy he was remotely monitoring it from his actual home, or, if he was living there, maybe it was to keep an eye on it while he was at work.

Who knows.

I drum my fingers against my belly, reflecting on all the shit we dug up while we were waiting for the warrant.

Perry's got no friends, at least, none that we could find. Coworkers described him as weird, antisocial, pompous, and self-aggrandizing, always keeping to himself unless he felt he could one up everyone in conversation. An attention whore who always had something to prove.

No family either. An only child. His father skipped out when he was six. His mother's got a record of alcohol and substance abuse and is on file with CPS as having been physically and verbally abusive to her son. We don't know where the fuck she is now— her Social Security checks have been cashed for the past two years from the trailer's address, but we can't find any evidence that she's even existed since 2004. She doesn’t have a phone or any bank activity, no cards, no accounting records, no nothing. Batista and I and everyone else on the task force suspect she's dead, that she's probably been dead for a little over two years now, and we only got more suspicious after we moved all the patio furniture and the grill and the faux grass off that weird concrete slab behind the trailer.

Masuka and his team were getting to work on it when the rest of us called it a night. I haven't stopped thinking that we're probably going to find Roberta Perry down there in the dirt. How fucked up would that be if it were true? He was grilling up hotdogs and ribs just a few feet above his mother. And who knows if anyone else is down there too.

So far everything's falling into place. Perry practically made the case for us with everything we found in his closet. For as meticulous as his dump scenes were, it's amazing to me the sheer volume of evidence he left behind for us to find. Even if we don't find a body on the property, we've got more than enough to bury him.

So what the fuck's Dexter problem?

I exhale, feeling a sudden jab of annoyance, glare at the ceiling.

He doesn't believe Perry's our guy. When I ran into him tonight in the parking lot as I was leaving the precinct and I told him about the mountain of shit we found at the trailer, he gave me this look like I was six years old and arguing that unicorns really do exist. This is the second time in a week he's doubted me, and it's hard not to take it personally. But this is different from Valerie Castillo. It's not just me with a theory this time— the whole department's hunting Perry —but Perry was _my_ lead, _my_ find. I would've thought my own brother would've been the first to rally behind me on this, not the only one voicing doubts. Even _LaGuerta_ thanked me for my work on this.

Fucking _LaGuerta._

I don't know what his problem is. Is he annoyed that I'm somehow encroaching on his turf? That for once he doesn't get to be the one with all the answers? He's always been the star of the family— top of every class, charming, squeaky clean. Next to him I was the resident retard, always in trouble for skipping class and screwing around, always in the background, constantly out-shined both personally and professionally by him. Honestly, sometimes I worry that’s still true.

Does it bother him that I'm finally in the spotlight too?

Or am I taking this too personally? Dexter's never been the resentful type— that would be me. Maybe he just thinks he sees something that the rest of us have missed.

He's wrong though. Perry's guilty as shit. We've only been digging into his life for half a day and we already have all of this. Hell, we even found a fucking packet of lozenges tucked into the passenger compartment of the station wagon. And who knows what, or who, or how many we're going to end up finding under the patio.

I can't wait for tomorrow. The net is tightening around Perry: everyone in the state's probably seen his face by now, and as far as we can tell he has no one in his life who would shelter him. God willing, by this time tomorrow we'll have him in custody, and we'll finally be able to put all this shit to rest.

I stretch my arms out on the bed, listening to the comforter slide under my skin.

Once we've found him, I wonder if I asked if he'd tell me whether or not he was the one who called me to the hospital. I just want to know why he chose me out of everyone on this case. And how.

I sit up and rub my face, shift my hair behind my ears and around one shoulder.

Tomorrow's gonna be a big fucking day.

 


	43. Saws and Black Tubing

_ _

_Saws and Black Tubing  
_ _Setting: “Circle of Friends”_

* * *

For a second I stand in the center of the chaos, watching everything unfold. There are cops everywhere, swarming the motel parking lot. My call for back up seems to have summoned half the uniforms in Miami. The tension is as suffocating as it is invigorating, and I find myself staring at the back of the patrol unit where Neil Perry is sitting, just like everyone else is.

Because it's finally over. The Ice Truck Killer is in custody, and, better yet, we just saved that girl's life.

 _I_ just saved her life…

I look away from our fat fucking catch, at the ambulance parked just behind a knot of Crown Vics. The girl is sitting on the back of the truck with an EMT. She's wearing a police jacket that one of the uniforms gave her to make up for her torn shirt, and all the blood on her face has been cleaned off, her cut bandaged. She's staring at the green and white that's housing Perry not entirely unlike a gazelle who's been hypnotized by the sight of a lion.

And suddenly I hear Batista's voice in my ear. “We need to take her statement,” he says, and I glance back, realizing he probably saw me looking.

“Now?” I say, glancing at her again. “Shouldn't she be going to the hospital?”

“EMT said she's only got a minor concussion. Besides, with these kinds of things, the sooner, the better.”

I nod, turn back to study the girl. She said her name was Krystal when we finally untied her from the bed, but that's essentially all we know about her. Even though we can guess what happened here, I suddenly want to hear her tell us the story, if anything just to confirm what Batista and I happened to walk into.

“Come on then,” he says, and then I'm following him forward. Krystal notices us only just as we cut off her line of sight to Perry, and when she finally looks at us it's like we're a couple of fucking martians.

“Can I go home now?” she says, sniffing. “I just want to go home. Please.” She focuses on me, apparently sensing I'm the weakest between the two of us. “Please, just let me go.”

“I'm sorry,” I say, and it's sort of true. I try not to look at the big, white bandage on her forehead. “You can go, but first we need to take your statement, if you're okay to do that. Or we could go to the station and take it there, if you prefer.”

“No, I ...” She slumps against the ambulance door, looking small inside the police jacket. “What do you want?”

“Let's start with your name,” Batista says, producing a pad of paper from his pocket.

“Krystal,” she says, sniffing again and wiping her eyes.

“Your real name,” he clarifies.

She looks at him a little angrily, but the expression fades quickly. “Krystal's my middle name,” she says after a beat. “Alexis Krystal Bryant.”

“That's good.” He goes to sit beside her, positions himself so that he's below her. It occurs to me as she looks down at him that he's trying to give her some semblance of control. “Now, I just want you to know that we're not looking to get you in trouble here,” he says. “The guy who assaulted you, he's the one we're after.”

She glances from him to me, past me, then back to him.

“We just want you to tell us what happened,” Batista continues when she says nothing. “That's all.”

“What happened?” she repeats.

Instinctively I shift a little closer, positioning myself directly between her and the unit holding Perry. “Take your time,” I say.

She looks up at me, but her gaze doesn't quite hit my eyes, instead falls to a point somewhere on the pavement. “He... well, you know,” she says to the ground. “He propositioned me, brought me here. I mean, he seemed normal enough, you know?” She glances at me and away again. “Or at least like the kind of guy who's done this kind of shit before, you know?”

I do know, have had more or less the same thought, but I don't vocalize that.

“So he took me here, got a key from the desk, brought me to the room.” She stops.

“Keep going,” I prompt gently.

“I don't know. He told me to go in first. 'Lady's first' or something. And...” She sobs slightly, sniffs. “I don't know, I went in, I didn't think anything of it, you know? I mean, he was just another mark, you know? And then he hit me with something.” Another sniff, and she rakes her hand across her face, schmearing her mascara even more than it already is. “I woke up tied to the bed, and he was just... he was fucking standing over me, looking down at me.” She hugs her arms to her chest. “And then he started fucking rambling about how he was going to kill me, and I saw all those fucking saws and knives and I fucking freaked, you know?” She takes a breath, shudders and chokes on it. “He was gonna fucking kill me,” she says. “Oh my god, he was going to...” Her voice cracks, and so does something in my stomach. “Like those other girls...”

I glance at Batista, shake my head slightly.

“He was going to...” She sobs. “Oh god...”

“It's okay,” Batista says. “We can stop.”

“Please,” she whispers into her knees. “Please, I just want to go home. I have to... I have to call my sister. Please... I...”

Batista nods, gets off the back of the ambulance and looks around the parking lot. His gaze stops on a youngish female officer, and he gestures her over when she sees him looking.

“Sir,” she says as she approaches us.

“Officer,” he says, “would you please take Krystal home, make sure she gets in safe?”

“Of course,” she says.

He nods and looks back at Krystal, who's rocking slowly as she cries into her knees. “Krystal,” he says, seems to stop himself. “Alexis,” he corrects, and she glances up at him. “This is Officer Perez. She's going to take you home now, alright?” When she nods, he digs around his pocket. “This is my card,” he says, pulling one out and holding it out to her. “Hold onto it, in case you need to talk or you think of anything else you want to tell us.”

She takes it and just sort of stares at it, sniffing. Nods again.

I want to say something to her, but I have no idea what to say. I've seen firsthand what Perry did to those other girls, what he did to Tucci, and as I stand here I can't help but wonder what would have happened if we'd chosen to go to one of the other five motels on our list before this one. The thought sends something long and cold and slippery oozing down my stomach.

“Let's go,” Batista says to me quietly, and we walk away from her, leave her to Perez. I take one last look back at her before we cross between a row of cruisers, see her hug the other officer. ( _Should I have done that? Would that even have been appropriate?_ )

We're halfway back to the room when Batista's phone rings. He stops, takes it out, looks at the caller ID. “It's LaGuerta,” he says, then answers, “Batista.”

I watch him listen to his phone for a second before turning away, finding myself drawn almost magnetically back to the room. The door's still open, just as we left it, and completely empty.

I walk inside, stop at the foot of the bed, glance around.

On the left a rack of tools: saws, blades, clamps, tubing— some of the same shit we found in his trailer. I can only assume that means he used his taxidermy tools on his human victims too. On the right a briefcase filled with knives and pliers and a cleaver. The plastic-covered mattress, the schmear of Krystal's blood. All this in the middle of a motel room that looks like a time capsule from 1993, with its pink, sea-shell lamps and the totally 90s abstract art and the ancient tube TV and the ugly, cheap carpeting.

It doesn't seem like a likely place to murder, exsanguinate, freeze, and saw someone into pieces, doesn't seem at all like whatever it was that Dexter was talking about this morning: the Ice Truck Killer's 'psychological signature.' Was this the final act of an animal who could hear the hounds closing in? Did he want to be found here with that girl's butchered corpse? Maybe now that he knew it was over he just wanted to be found spectacularly— in a room covered in blood and filled with his killing tools.

Jesus christ, what if we hadn't made it here in time?

I think of Cherry. Did she die tied spread eagle on some mattress too? Did he set up all this shit for her to see before he bled her out and chopped her up? Were that fucker's psychotic ramblings the last thing she heard before he slit her throat?

I swallow, feel my mouth dry.

Jesus.

“Morgan,” I hear, and I jump slightly, turn back as Batista walks in.

“Yeah?” I say, forcing my face into neutral.

“We're transporting Perry out of here,” he says. “The media's already found out about the arrest. We've gotta get him away before more news vans show up.”

“Probably that bitch at reception,” I mutter, more to myself than anything.

He studies me for half a second. “You alright?”

I smile, more defensively than anything. “I'm great.” I exhale. “Fuck, can you believe all this?”

“You did great work on this,” he says. “Seriously. It was your digging that got us here.”

The smile feels less tight, and I nod.

“Come on.” He tips his head toward the door.

I follow him out of the room. When I look at where Krystal and the ambulance were, I find they're both gone. On the other end of the lot, along the road, there are news vehicles gathering. My car's still unfortunately out at the entrance, right where they all are, and as Batista and I walk toward it a bunch of reporters notice us.

“ _Is it true you've made an arrest on the Ice Truck Killer?” “Is there a victim in there?” “Have you arrested Neil Perry?” “Detectives...”_

We ignore them, quickly get into the car. I grab my keys and turn over the engine, look up at the unit that's holding Perry ( _the Ice Truck Killer_ ), then shift out of park, get the hell out of the lot and away from the motel.

“What the fuck was he singing?” I ask for some reason as we roll by the news vans and the small swarm of reporters, flipping on my lights. “When we arrested him?”

“Now the Day is Over,” he answers as he snaps on his seat belt, which sort of surprises me.

“How do you know that?” I ask.

“It's an old hymn. I was raised Catholic, but Nina's Episcopalian. Sometimes they sing it at her church.”

“Hm.” I exhale, feeling tense and jittery as I hop back onto 90. At this hour the road's clear— four lanes of open pavement. When I glance in the rearview I see a line of blue and red lights following. I'm leading the fucking entourage.

_Me._

_They're following me._

My heart is beating hard, my tongue paper dry. I can't believe how quickly all of this came together. I— “I can't believe it's over,” the thought comes out my mouth.

Batista glances at me and smiles, lightly taps my shoulder with his fist. “Now we just gotta break this motherfucker.”

I grin too, press the gas a little. There's a half an hour of road between us and the station, but right now it feels like a crap load more.

 


	44. Rudy Cooper

_ _

_Rudy Cooper  
_ _Setting: “Circle of Friends”_

* * *

I snap the door closed behind me, fall against it, exhale a “Fuck,” long and slow. My entire body still feels like jello.

 _Fuck_ what a day.

I dump all my shit on the floor, make my way to my bed and collapse there, let out another long groan and just grin like a moron at the ceiling.

I don't even know what just happened. One second I was sitting on the back of his car drinking champagne and swapping life stories and the next we were groping in the parking garage under the hospital, and our hands were everywhere, up and under shirts, fingers grasping at buttons, and then his voice was in my ear talking about his office as I was halfway through his shirt.

We barely made it there. I don't know what the fuck it was in me, maybe just the high off today's win, maybe the champagne we nicked from Tucci's party, maybe just how fucking incredibly good he seemed to taste, how good his hands felt raking across my skin. I was practically on fire by the time we got to the right door, and he pushed it open with my back.

All those fucking plastic hands and legs and tubs and tools... We fucked in the dark, just street light coming in from the window. For as hungry as I was, he seemed almost starving for every inch of me...

I can feel my heart pounding again just thinking about it.

I exhale hard, cross my legs, uncross, sit up and unzip my boots, let them fall where they will. I'm halfway out of my pants (again) when I hear my phone chiming from the other room, and I quickly shimmy the rest of the way out of them and toss them on the bed before jogging out.

“This is Morgan,” I say after I find the stupid thing in a side pouch.

“It's Batista,” I hear. “Figured you'd want the heads up. Perry just confessed.”

“Oh motherfucker,” I whisper, grinning even more than I already was. “He never ended up requesting a lawyer?”

“Nope,” he says, and I can hear him grinning too. “He wanted everyone to hear his bullshit uncensored.”

“Fuckin A, Angel,” I say.

“And we have you to thank for this bust,” he continues. “Great work.”

“Hey, you were right there with me,” I say. “Now, you should go home, see your wife and your kid. It's late and that asshole's taken enough of our time.”

“Couldn't agree more. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Have a nice night.”

“You too.”

I flip my phone shut. And then I stare off at nothing in particular, still grinning.

We caught him. He confessed. It's over.

I was instrumental in taking that cocksucker down. _Me._ Two months ago I was nothing more than bait for a bunch of unsuspecting Johns, and today I'm getting congratulated for my work in closing one of the biggest cases Miami's seen in decades.

_What the fuck is even going on anymore?_

I go back to my bedroom, toss my phone on the bed and search for a pair of shorts to sleep in, find them and pull them on. Then off comes my blouse and my bra, on comes a soft cotton shirt. When I shift my clothes off the bed I can smell him all over them, and for half a second I breathe him in, closing my eyes. God he was good. That hungry way he took my mouth, sucked away my breath, that urgent way he pulled at my...

My phone beeps, buzzes from somewhere in the comforter.

I look down, torn from the moment, note the little screen is white.

I reach for it and pull it toward me, flip it open. Text from a new number.

I hit enter, lay down. Find myself grinning again.

_How would you feel if I asked you out for dinner tomorrow? -Rudy_

Rudy. Rudy Cooper.

After a day like this I wouldn't even have necessarily cared if we never saw each other again (but I want to). It was all so heat of the moment, a mad fucking consumption probably driven by that adrenaline high I've been coasting on for the past two days finally breaking ( _but I want to_ ). And seeing Tucci released, knowing that the Ice Truck Killer wasn't able to take everything from him, and knowing that that girl we saved from the motel is home tonight because of us... Today is the first day I've really, truly felt like the cop I've always wanted to be, like the cop my father would've wanted me to be.

( _fuck I want to_ )

My phone's screen's turned itself off. I click it back on, grin and bite my lip as I think up possible responses. ( _because I want to, jesus even if it's just to fuck like that again_ )

 _Pretty fucking great_ , I type. Hit send.

I keep grinning, let the phone fall back onto my chest. I mean, really, why not? He's attractive, smart, funny, speaks French, puts people back together, even said he likes that I'm a cop.

I just hope he’s not fucking married too…

My phone buzzes again, but this time it's a call. From him.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Hey,” he says.

I feel a pulse of warmth at his voice. I run my tongue against the back of my teeth.

“So how's seven thirty tomorrow grab you?” he asks.

“Sounds great,” I say. ( _but you know what almost sounds better..._ )

“So what kind of food do you like?”

( _god I don't care_ ) I grin a little wider. “Surprise me.”

“Spontaneous. I like it.”

“Oh yeah?” I can imagine him there as I stare up at the ceiling. “What else do you like?”

“I'll make a list and read it off to you tomorrow.”

Another pulse. “I can't wait.”

He exhales lightly into the phone. “Text me your address.”

“Alright, yeah,” that comes out throatier than intended. “See you tomorrow.”

“Count on it.”

I pull the phone away, flip it closed, drop it back on my chest. Close my eyes.

I don't know what the fuck is going on today, but I'm not going to question it. It was one thing to take the professional win— catching the Ice Truck Killer in the act, saving that girl, getting congratulated by half my colleagues, including LaGuerta —but to have such a sudden and ridiculously impulsive coming together with this guy too? Jesus, it's like receiving several grand karmic reimbursements on the same day.

I stretch my arms behind me.

And fuck me with Dexter's cactus if I couldn't admit that I'm kind of glad Rudy called, because I want to see him again.

I lift my phone and type in my address.

Hit send.

 


	45. Little Wriggling Grains of Rice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two things: from the first day of 1x09, there are eleven days until Deb's abduction, which means between the end of 1x07 (which is today in this chapter) and the start of 1x09 quite a lot of time needs to pass, since canonically 1x08 occurs around the 20th of November but the final ITK scene (1x11) is put out near Christmas. The second thing is that Deb's story presence is fairly light in 1x08/1x09. We actually really have no idea what she was doing in 1x08 besides working the suicide and screwing Rudy. Both these things mean I have a lot of time and a lot of liberty with what Deb is doing during this period.  
> So I've decided I'm gonna give her some cases to work, just coz I've got like 27 days to deal with before Dear Dexter's Dead Dad. So more Deb! More Doakes! More Masuka! More Dexter! More blood! More crime scenes! Yay!

_ _

_Little Wriggling Grains of Rice  
_ _Setting: “Circle of Friends”_

* * *

When I drop into my seat it feels like everything's changed, yet nothing has. All the excitement from the chase is gone, all the dust has settled from the arrest, and everyone is back to doing whatever it was they were doing before Neil Perry entered our radar. Everyone except me, anyway. The Ice Truck Killer case is what finally landed me the transfer into this department, and I’ve been singularly focused on it since I got here. Now that it's over I feel strangely light. I got justice for all those girls, for Cherry, for Tony Tucci, and now I'm free of it. I can move all those damn folders out of my desk, start taking assignments for other homicides without having constant, niggling thoughts about it.

All as soon as I finish writing up the report on yesterday's bust.

I tap the power button for my computer, lean back as it wakes up, take a sip of coffee. I haven't even reached the password screen when I hear a nearby phone ring, and I glance over to see Doakes answer.

“Yeah,” he says, still scribbling something with one hand as he sticks the phone to his ear with the other. “Yeah.” His pen stops, and his eyebrows crunch. “What?” Brief pause. “Shit, I'll be right down. Just keep the fucking hall clear and make sure you've got that recording.” He stands as he hangs up. I watch him curiously, but his gaze goes across from him instead of toward me. “Pullman,” he says. “We've got a problem.”

Pullman pauses on his way back from the break area, mug in hand. “What?”

“Downs just offed himself in holding. Waited until his bunk mate was taken out for processing.”

“Shit,” Pullman says, lowering his mug.

“Let's get over there before the media does. You know county's fucking full of holes.” As Pullman nods he heads toward LaGuerta's office and disappears inside. Thirty seconds later he's exiting again, and then the two of them breeze out. Their absence is so sudden it's almost palpable. At least three seconds pass before I remember what I was doing before Doakes got that call, and then I turn back to my computer, type in my ID and password. As it boots I can't help but think about it though, that call. I don't know much about Doakes' case beyond that it was a pretty bloody stabbing by a repeat offender just released from Juvie. But now the kid's dead. Did he have any family? Is Doakes going to have to call them to tell them that their son was not only a murderer but that he committed suicide and died in police custody? Or is there no one to call? Will Downs just end up rotting in a box in potter's field?

I double click my partially-finished write up from yesterday, glance at the blinking cursor.

What a shitty way to start the morning...

Exhaling, I lay my hands over my keyboard, drag myself back to yesterday. Every step we took at that motel has to be documented for the trial, just to ensure all our ducks are in a row against Perry's attorney, when he gets one. As I start writing I wonder, assuming the case even went to trial, what kind of argument the defense would try to argue for, after the confession and the mountain of evidence we recovered from that trailer. Perry as good as gift wrapped himself for us.

Time passes, my coffee runs out, I finish my report. I'm getting up to retrieve it from the printer when LaGuerta steps out of her office. “Detective Batista,” she says.

He looks up at her from his desk. “Yeah?”

“We've got an apparent stabbing up in Little Havana, two dead.” She hands him a slip of paper. “Here's the address. Dexter's still at county with Perry, but he'll meet you on scene soon. Take Masuka in the meantime.”

“Alright.” Batista nods and gets up, sticks his hat on his head.

“Officer Morgan,” I feel a slight jolt in the stomach as she looks at me, “Doakes has to finish up the Downs case, so for now I'm putting you with Batista.”

I nod. “Got it.”

She nods too and heads back into her office, shuts the door. I stand by the printer in silence, watch as Batista stretches, grabs the water bottle off his desk, and shuffles off toward the geek squad. For whatever reason, I can’t help a slight feeling of surprise— LaGuerta actually _acknowledged_ me.

Quickly, I grab the papers from the printer, go to my desk and shove them in their folder, grab my purse. By then Batista's heading back in my direction. “You're driving,” he says, holding out a set of car keys and the slip of paper LaGuerta gave him, then rubbing his face. “ _Ay dios mío.._ ” he mutters as he unscrews his water.

I grin at him, take both. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“We all went out last night after Perry confessed,” he says. “You should've been there. We all owe you a shot.”

“From your face right now, I'm glad I wasn't,” I say, glancing down at the paper. 429 SW 8th Ct.

And, besides, I had other plans.

I grin just thinking about that, turning for the elevator. He follows behind me, taking a drink.

Masuka meets us there before the car arrives. “Morgan,” he says as the doors open. “Looking fine as ever this morning.”

“Can you just... not be fucking you for, I don't know, the rest of the day?” I ask as we step inside, stabbing the '1' button. I hear Batista snort.

He leers at me. “Sure. I can be whoever you want me to be.”

“So shut the fuck up until we get there,” I say.

“Your lips say shut up, but your eyes...” I glare at him, pursing my lips. “No, they say shut up too.”

I grimace at him.

“Fine, have it your way,” he says with a sigh. “But you can't deny that undercurrent between us forever. Eventually you're gonna want a taste, and who knows if I'll even be available then to...” he grins at me again, “satisfy your craving.”

I roll my eyes as I look away to stare pointedly at the wall panel. As he starts up with that fucking giggling.

I'm entertaining a vague fantasy of unholstering my weapon and pointing it at his nuts when the doors open. “Oh, thank fuck,” I mutter. As I step out, I glance at Batista. “What car?”

“Think it’s the red one,” he says, pointing at it with his bottle before taking another drink.

I lead the way to it while he and Masuka follow behind. I can guess exactly where that perverted little shit is looking as we head out of the building, but at this point I just want to get away from him. And possibly be deloused.

When we get there I jam the key into the door and pop it open, then climb inside, unlock the passenger-side door. The windshield is still glazed from this morning's rain, but for the moment it's clear out. I run the wipers a few times, then settle back in my seat as Batista opens his door.

“You know, I think he's right,” he says, taking a long drink of water.

“About what?” I ask, reaching for the GPS unit and typing in the address.

“That tension between you two. It's okay to have feelings, Morgan. You've just got to admit them to yourself.”

I look up from the stupid little box to make a face at him. He grins at my scowl. “I will fucking kill you both and make it look like some fucked-up, choke-play BDSM shit.”

He laughs and drinks more of his water as I roll my eyes and belt myself in, then toss the GPS back into the dash cubby, turn over the engine, shift out of park. I know where I'm going.

As I drive my thoughts bounce back and forth, from the Ice Truck Killer to Rudy to whatever it is we're driving to, then back round again, and the roads blur by. I still can't believe we caught him, that after something like seven months all this was ended by a total shot in the dark at 2AM. I can't believe yesterday we saved that chick, caught him right before the act. I can't believe I met someone so randomly and so suddenly, and I can't believe we're having dinner tonight. I wasn't even looking for anything, not after that fuck up with Sean.

Sean.

I'm still so fucking ashamed of myself for not noticing…

I ease off the gas, spotting the little green sign marking SW 8th Ct hidden half inside a tree, turn onto a narrow alley of a street walled in on either side by boarded-up, chain-link fencing. Graffiti and trash everywhere, grates over all the windows. In front of one house, clipped to the fence, is a sign: _No Parking Zona Privada._ On the opposite side, behind another fence, a pink house with lawn chairs on a concrete patio, garbage and beer bottles scattered all over the ground.

“40-29?” I ask, continuing to cruise on by.

“Yeah,” Batista says.

“Charming neighborhood.” I note a group of people sitting on more plastic chairs on a different concrete patio, studying us from behind their cigarettes. Reminds me of a thousand nights on patrol driving around similar streets, and five hundred more standing on street corners for Vice.

But this is the wrong block. 400s are the next one up. I step slightly on the gas, pass by more brightly-colored houses and fences, stop at the intersection, then keep on going.

“Hold up,” Batista says as we come up on a somewhat territorial-style apartment building squatting on a lawn next to another complex that closely resembles a shoebox with windows. “Yeah, that's the one.”

I nod and pull over behind a green and white that's already parked there. In the rearview, I see a van pull in too just at my bumper. Masuka.

We get out, grabbing gloves from a box in the dash. The air is a little chilly, a strong breeze pulling at all the palm fronds against a pewter-grey sky. It'll be raining again any minute now.

The patrol unit's door opens, and out steps an officer. He looks shaken.

“I'm Detective Batista,” Batista says, approaching them as Masuka joins us. “This is Officer Morgan, Vince Masuka. You got the call?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Neighbors called the super saying they were smelling something weird coming from apartment 23, thought maybe something had died in a wall. Super went in, found the bodies, called 911. My partner and I went in, called you guys out. He's still up there, my partner.”

Batista nods. I glance away from him, toward the open lobby. Through it I can see a steel-barred door separating the street from the interior of the building. It reminds me of a prison door.

“It's pretty fucking disgusting in there,” the uniform continues. “I think they've been in there awhile.”

I glance back at him, feeling a slight twinge just south of my throat. Great.

“Lead the way,” Batista says, apparently unfazed.

The cop nods, steps up the concrete steps. I follow behind Batista, letting Masuka go last, coz, fuck it, I'm not fazed either. We pass through the open barred door across tile that smells like mildew, turn for a flight of stairs. On the second floor we exit, and after turning the corner we meet another uniform, who's staring very, very hard at the wall. Through another door across the hall, a small group of guys are watching us. Already I can smell The Smell, sitting above the other, stronger notes of mold and pot.

“Stay out here,” Batista directs to the uniforms. “We're going in.” And then he goes in, snapping on gloves. Taking a breath, I do the same. The Smell gets stronger as we head inside.

The place is a total shitheap, and there’s trash everywhere: on the floors, the counter tops, the threadbare couch. Old pizza and Chinese to-go boxes, balled-up receipts, plastic forks, wrappers, half-empty soda jugs, and—

“Watch out for needles,” Batista says, apparently reading my thoughts as we step gingerly through the mess. There are flies everywhere.

Great, I think as I avoid a couple needles. If there was any place I was gonna contract fucking hepatitis…

I purse my lips and follow him down a trash-strewn hall, past a bathroom that's too disgusting to look at, and then we're at the bedroom. The smell's so strong now I can taste it with each breath, globbing at the back of my throat and choking away the air.

Ah, fuck.

“Ready for this, Morgan?” Batista asks.

“Oh, I’m ready,” I murmur, and open the door, maybe just to prove to them nothing fucking gets to me. As it swings wide, I get blasted in the face.

Fuck, the _smell._

My stomach sucks inward, shoots a stream of bile up my throat. I inhale sharply to try to steady the sudden pang of nausea, but it only makes it worse because it's just a mouthful of that shit. “Ah, jeez,” I hear behind me.

Flies bounce drunkenly off my body, my face, and on the thing that was once a bed there's one body, and on the floor beside it, another. Little white maggots wriggle all over them and the sheets and the floor and the trash like a patchwork, seething carpet. Behind the body, on the floor, the nightstand is lying on its side, and there are broken pieces of a lamp all over the place. Half a fucking fuzzy, molded-up pizza, still in the box, covered with flies. Needles and spoons and blood fucking everywhere, brown and black and crusted up. A river of ants marches from the north corner into the central chaos.

For some reason, I find myself wondering if they’re here for the pizza or the corpses.

“God I hate being this late to the party,” Masuka says, coming in and around behind me. “Would you look at this fucking mess?”

Batista is making a face. “It’s kind of hard to miss.” He looks at me. “How you doing, Morgan?”

I swallow. “I'm just fucking great,” I say. ( _fuck the smell oh my fuck_ ) “You?” ( _motherfucker this is going to set into my hair and my clothes forever_ )

He grimaces at the bodies, looks away. “I'm just glad I didn't eat this morning...” he mutters, then looks at Masuka. “Vince, you got any masks?”

“Always,” he says, opening his bag and producing a bunch of plastic baggies.

I take one from him gratefully, feeling a sudden surge of something that could almost be love as I rip open the bag and stick the mask over my nose and mouth. It doesn't do much for the smell, mostly only dampens it, but it's still a relief to be breathing through it. I close my eyes for a second, grateful if anything just to have a barrier between me and the flies swirling everywhere.

“Hey,” I hear a familiar voice in the door, and I turn back to see Dexter walking in with his bag and camera. He comes in with a smile on his face, as if he doesn’t even see or smell what's going on in here. “Good morning, sister,” he says, sounding totally chipper.

“Is it?” I ask, my voice muffled through the mask.

“Do us a favor, _socio_ ,” Batista says before he can reply, adjusting the strap of his own mask. “Just tell us what happened here so we can start interviewing the neighbors.”

“Alright.” He nods, walks a bit closer to the bodies, stares down at them for a second. “Female,” he says after a second, looking at the body on the floor. “Male.” He shifts closer to the bed, and a cloud of flies erupts from it, starts bouncing off him and around the room, off me and the rest of us. He turns around, looks at Masuka. “Got another mask?”

His buttbuddy nods, hands him one. My brother casually sticks it on, murmuring, “Interesting.”

“What?” I say, almost forgetting the situation myself. I've never seen him actually do this. I've seen him recount things from photographs but I've never watched him do... what he does.

“No blood,” he says. “On the bed. And... ah hah.” He leans in a little closer, grabs the camera off his chest and starts taking pictures. “A needle.”

I walk around him slightly to see better, despite myself. The skin is partially sloughed off and purple, covered in little wriggling grains of rice, but where he's indicating I can see a bright yellow ribbon around the arm and, still lodged in the forearm, a needle. I look away, my stomach lurching violently.

“Thinking OD?” Batista asks.  
Dexter shrugs. “Question for the coroner.” He looks down at the body on the floor. “Her though, there was a struggle here. Just look at the cast off, on the wall, the floor.” He points. “There was a fight here against the end table, probably knocked it over, broke the lamp. See how the blood spattered on top of the pieces?” He points. Brown on white ceramic. “She fell here, bled out, but not before...” he stops, points, “not before injuring her attacker.”

Batista and I both look at him. I feel strangely caught on his words.

“See here?” He points. “Blood drops. They didn't come from her. And,” he looks toward me and past me, at the door, then walks to it, “there's a smear here. A hand.” He takes like six pictures of it. “And more blood on the floor. Here and here.” More pointing, more picture taking.

“A hand?” Batista repeats. “Think there are prints?”

He shrugs, nods slowly. “Yeah, could be.”

He nods back. “Alright, you guys continue here. Morgan, you and I are gonna go talk to the neighbors, see if anyone saw anything.”

In this neighborhood? I want to ask, but don't. The thought of getting out of this shithole sounds like the fucking best idea that anyone has ever had.

“Can you tell us how long they've been here?” Batista continues.

Dexter shrugs again. “Ten days? Two weeks?”

“How in the everliving fuck could they have sat here like this for two weeks without anybody noticing?” I ask, even though I could guess the answer.

Everyone just sort of looks at me for a beat, then Batista steps out. “Come on,” he says. “Let's get some air.”

“No argument here,” I mutter, but before I can follow him my brother sticks his arm in front of the door, blocks me from leaving.

“Hey, Deb, you free for lunch today?” he asks. “I thought we should talk.”

Suddenly I remember how annoyed with him I still am over all the Ice Truck Killer shit. “Honestly, Dex, after this I don't know that I’ll ever fucking eat again, so…” I trail off with a shrug, look expectantly at him to move.

But he doesn’t, just looks at me with half his face covered by the stupid mask. His eyes are filled with that vague sort of confusion that makes me think of a dog or something— just a total lack of comprehension as to why my tone is the way it is.

“Fine,” I say, giving in just so he’ll get out of my way, even though the thought of eating sends another wave of puke rolling through my stomach. “Whatever. You're buying.”

I can almost see him smile under the mask.

“Great,” he says, retracting his arm. “Good luck with the neighbors.”

“Yeah, uh huh,” I mutter. Quickly, I turn around, pick my way back to the exit. When I finally reach it and get into the hall again, I rip off the mask and suck in some marginally fresher air. After a few breaths I feel myself normalize, and I stand up a little straighter, seeing Batista studying me. It occurs to me that the uniforms are gone.

“What?” I say.

“Still feeling great?” he asks.

I give him a look. “Never better.”

He grins. “After you then.”

I take his invitation, lead the way to the first door and knock. Just before it opens I find myself thinking back on the other gross-ass shit I saw back on patrol, even a few times on Vice. It’s no less disgusting than it was the first call I found a corpse, when I barely stopped myself from tossing my lunch back up all over some other responding officer, in the driveway of some house in Model City. I wonder how many scenes like this are in my immediate future.

Then the door opens the width of a chain, and someone is eying me suspiciously through the gap.

“Miami Metro Homicide,” I say, flashing my badge. “Would you mind answering a few questions?”

 


	46. Inhale, Exhale

_ _

_Inhale, Exhale  
_ _Setting: “Circle of Friends”_

* * *

I inhale, then blow out a long breath, feel Rudy's arm shift on top of me. I'm not entirely sure if he's asleep, but at the moment I'm content to just listen to him breathe, even as other, less blissfully-absent thoughts start creeping back in.

The crime scene. Those interviews. The lunch with Dexter. All that shit he said...

I shift slightly, reach up and take Rudy's hand, then rub my fingers against it slowly. Outside I can still hear it storming.

I don't know what to think. Even after everything we found, my brother's still convinced that Neil Perry isn't the Ice Truck Killer. He can't explain away how he had all those pictures, or how he knew so many details about the case, but he absolutely believes that he's never murdered anyone. He met with him this morning to figure out if there was any way to salvage prints from his fingers, said when he looked into his eyes he knew that he wasn't a killer.

But how the fuck could Dexter _know_ just from looking, despite everything? I admit that at first glance, Perry would be low on my list of suspects. He looks like he doesn't have the strength of a limp noodle, but if he tied up or held a gun on his victims before killing them, then that doesn't matter. Hell, all the serial killers I know about weren't exactly grizzled beefcakes. Most of them looked as normal as anyone. I know Dexter's been doing this a long time, know he's come face-to-face with a lot of killers, but that doesn't mean he can identify on sight with certainty.

Still, everyone trusts his judgement. _I_ trust his judgement. And seeing him work today, seeing how well he can read a scene... I don't know. I don't _want_ to believe him— I _don't_ believe him. But...

Fuck, he's right. It is suspicious as hell that _all_ his fingerprints are gone. Just from the scars the doctors say it was done recently, and it would've had to have been, since the print on the lozenge wrapper can't be anymore than three weeks old. But we haven't found another victim since Tony Tucci, and none of his freaky little stuffed roadkills showed any signs of freezing, so when and why would he have been working with liquid nitrogen, and how could he have accidentally burned all his fingers at once? I'll concede that much to Dex: it was intentional. As to _why_ he'd do that, when he so cleanly confessed, I don't know. Dexter's saying he did it because he knew his prints wouldn't match.

But then how the fuck did he get the photographs if he didn't take them? How could he have known so many details about the case?

He's got to be wrong. Maybe he burned off his prints as a precaution. Maybe back when he did it he hadn't been planning to confess.

I feel Rudy's hand slip out of mine, realize that at some point I stopped rubbing it. He runs it slowly down my side, traces my outer thigh. Part of me wants to roll over, but the rest of me still feels too dead from fucking to move.

I don't want to believe Dexter, but I can feel a little kernel of doubt now in my stomach, and that sure as shit hadn't been there this morning. Perry was _my_ bust, _my_ lead, but if Dexter's right, then I'm the asshole who was unlucky enough to find the breadcrumbs that led to him. Could it all have been planted? Is Perry just a wannabe, a guy who's watched one too many documentaries and episodes of _CSI,_ figured he wanted more than to die some lonely, roadkill-stuffing geek? He says he killed his mother, but the coroner never ruled an official cause of death, said there was no evidence of trauma beyond the postmortem cutting. For all we know, Perry just found her dead and buried her to keep the pipeline to her Social Security checks open— and that's what Dex is insisting. Fuck knows why he cut off part of her leg though. Even my amazing brother doesn't have a theory on that.

I feel Rudy's hand slide along my back, and then he shifts up, kisses my neck. “You awake?” he asks at my ear.

“Yeah,” I breathe as he pulls me closer with his other arm. I roll over, tap my fingers into his chest.

“What're you thinking about?” he asks, shifting my hair out of my face.

“Just... today,” I say, not really wanting to talk about it. I guess I can't really talk about it either, with this case as big as it is.

“Not this?” he says.

I knock my forehead into his, smile slightly. “That too.”

“Good.” He kisses my nose, then finds my lips. For a second we kiss, then he pulls away. “I've gotta use the bathroom,” he says.

“It's pretty easy to find.”

He kisses my forehead again, then rolls away and off the bed. “I'll be right back.”

“Okay.” I exhale, watch as he pads forward in the dark, grabs his underwear off the floor and puts it on, then disappears beyond the door. Feeling no desire to move, I decide not to, just shift my pillow slightly under my head.

I don't want to let Dexter undermine me like this. Yesterday I was a hero at the station for capturing Perry, and even LaGuerta respects me more for it. If this bust was all a set up, then I'm the mook who led the charge. And, really, all he's got right now is his gut on this. His gut versus a mountain of evidence, not to mention the girl we saved at the motel.

( _But..._ )

I press a couple fingers into my forehead, force my thoughts onto a different track. Today's case.

The neighbors saw nothing, apparently had no idea apartment 23 was being used as a drug den and neither did the super ( _yeah, right..._ ). I didn't follow the bodies to the morgue, so I don't know what the hold up was, but it wasn't until long after lunch that we finally got a call from the coroner saying they managed to get some usable prints. Running them popped the names Lorena Soto and Juan Nunez, and the DNA from the blood drops should be done processing in a few days. Other prints from the apartment gave us eight additional hits— all known substance abusers. We tracked two of them down today, but neither showed any wounds from a stabbing. The second was high off his fucking mind though, had a couple dimebags of heroin in his nightstand, so we busted his ass and handed him off to Narcotics. We'll be going after the rest of the list tomorrow.

If only the killer had just had the fucking decency to go to an ER or something...

And Perry...

I exhale, sit up, push all my hair back with one hand and tuck it behind a shoulder. I can't start obsessing over this. It's done. It's solved. My brother's wrong— that's all there is to it.

( _But..._ )

“Getting up?” I look up at Rudy as he walks through the door.

“No,” I say.

“Still thinking?” he asks, as he walks over to the bed and settles beside me.

“Yeah, something like that.” I reach for his hand.

“I should go,” he says, clearing his throat as he rubs my palm with his thumb. “It's late, and we both have work in the morning.”

I study him for a second, then lean toward him, press his hand to my chest as I kiss him. For an extended moment we just do that, and I stop thinking about Dexter and Neil Fucking Perry as I feel his hand move down my chest to cup a breast, his other sliding down my back. I feel a stab of heat as his fingers find my ass.

“Want to stay the night?” I suggest when our tongues finally separate.

“You're sure?” he asks.

At this particular moment I've never been surer of anything. “Yeah,” I murmur, drawing him toward me, then pushing him to the bed.

But before I can quite position myself over him he flips me over, compresses me down, kisses me so hard it crushes the breath from me. “ _Je vais te tuer,_ ” he whispers in my ear when he finally pulls away enough to let me inhale again.

“I don't fucking know what that means,” I whisper back.

“It means I'm going to fuck you,” he says, then captures my mouth again as his hand slides down my stomach. And then another whisper as his fingers make contact, _“Tu vas mourir en criant.”_

And at this point the thoughts die in my head, leave my mouth with a breath.

 


	47. Pringles

_ _

_Pringles  
_ _Setting: “Circle of Friends”_

* * *

“For the record, Mr. Pascal, you're still refusing legal council?”

Silence.

“I'm gonna need verbal confirmation for the record.”

Petulant glare.

“That's a yes or a no.”

He slumps further into his seat, nods, then glares out the window. Batista and I do nothing, just sit here silently, waiting. And finally, “Yes.”

“Thank you,” Batista says. “Now, Officer Morgan and I were curious to know if you have anything new to add to the story you told us yesterday, about how you got all those cuts.”

“I told you: it was a gardening accident.”

“A gardening accident?” Batista repeats. “You're sure?”

He shifts uncomfortably, doesn't reply.

“Well, that's interesting, because I've got a forensic report here that says otherwise.” He glances at me, then slides the closed folder toward Carlos Pascal, who stares down at it with an obvious odor of fear. “What?” he asks after a beat.

Batista glances at me again, and I nod slightly, reach forward and flip open my brother's report.

Yesterday was a pretty fucking good day, all things considered. Of the six guys we still had on our list who left prints at that shithole apartment, four had left paraphernalia in plain sight when we went to their houses to question them about the corpses in the bedroom, and two of them said they'd trade information for getting off the drug charges. After agreeing, they both pointed us toward lucky number five on the list, Carlos Pascal, whom we'd already arrested and who'd been wearing long sleeves when we dragged him down to holding. Once we got his shirt off we could see the crisscross of cuts along his arms and a deep, purple wound just below his ribs. He tried to tell us straight-faced that he'd cut himself with shears.

We shipped his ass to the hospital, sent Dexter to examine the wounds and see if he could match them with what he saw on the floor in the crime scene while we had techs tear apart Pascal's shitty apartment to look for bloody clothes. After the exam, Dexter went back to the crime scene, and I tagged along, since I was with him already as his police guard with Pascal.

It felt a little eerie walking in there to find the bodies missing and the trash cleared out, all the maggots gone, and the stench mostly eliminated. In their place, blooming off the floor and the walls, were dozens of red threads, all twisting and curling to converge at a silver rod sitting over a brown stain— like some kind of organic growth, or a strange piece of art. Other blood drops were marked with flags or smaller lines of thread, all connecting to tell a story my brother could read even without the visuals. I asked him if Pascal was our guy, and he said everything matched up. Not even ten minutes later, CSU called to say they found a shirt.

“Those wounds on your arms are defensive,” I say, running my finger along the little anatomical representation on the front page of the report, where my brother penned in all the marks on his body with red ink. “And that,” I point to the stab wound in his midsection, “that wasn't done by shears.”

He looks at me.

“That was done by a knife. The same kind of knife used to kill Lorena Soto.” I slide the other folder out from under Dexter's, flip it open to reveal some of the more grisly crime scene photos in full, glossy color. Pascal's face blanches. “Yeah, that's what happened to her after you left her and her boyfriend for dead.” I shift the head shot aside to reveal another of the body on the bed. “This was Juan.”

“Bitch,” he mutters, though who knows if he's talking to me or referencing one of the dead people in the pictures.

“We've got you dead to rights,” I say, still looking at him, though his gaze has gone back to the pictures. “We found your shirt in a bag under your bed. I can't believe you held onto it for so long. How long's it been?”

“Two weeks,” Batista supplies.

I settle back into my seat, fold my fingers on the table. “Two fucking weeks.”

He glares at me. “I didn't kill that piece of shit.”

“What piece of shit?” I ask.

“Get those fucking away from me!” He shoves at the pictures, but his cuffs draw him short.

Neither of us move to help. “What piece of shit, Carlos?” I repeat.

“Fucking... Juan. He ODed. I didn't have shit to do with that.”

That much we were sure of. The coroner ruled his death an overdose, by all appearances accidental and self-inflicted.

“Bitch flipped out when she found him, fucking attacked me. It was self-defense.” He pales even more, shuts his mouth. Then, “I'm done talking.”

Batista and I glance at each other. He just as much as confessed. “She attacked you?” Batista asks.

“I said I'm done talking,” Pascal says. “And I changed my mind. I want my lawyer.”

We exchange another glance. I bite back a grin. “You got it,” Batista says, getting up. I follow suit as Pascal slumps and fixes his gaze on the table, looking like he just ate a couple slugs and is trying desperately not to vomit them back up. He’s 25: way too fucking young to have ruined his life.

Batista and I walk out together, shut the door to the interrogation room. “Well, that was easy,” I say, glancing back through the one-way mirror.

Batista shifts. “The defense is gonna work the self-defense angle. For all we know, it was.”

“Doesn't matter,” I say. “You read the report. She was bleeding out on that floor for an hour, and he left her there to die. There was time to save her, but he just fucking abandoned her. Not to mention, who knows if Juan was even dead yet either.” I cross my arms. “We've got enough to crucify him.”

Batista glances from me to the kid through the window, then back to me. “I'm going to go call his lawyer.” He pats my shoulder. “Good job in there, Morgan.”

“Thanks,” I say, nodding as he walks out.

After a beat I turn around, look back through the mirror. Pascal is still staring down at the pictures. I wonder if he's horrified by what he's done or if he's just disgusted by the pictures. How well did he know either of the dead people, the woman he stabbed and left to die? Both his compadres on the list who ratted on him said he's a low-level dealer, so as far as I've put it together, he came over with the heroin, the boyfriend went to the bedroom to inject his purchase, and Lorena went in later to find him passed out, possibly dead, possibly not. She saw how fucked up he was, freaked, called Carlos back there, and for some reason one of them attacked the other with a knife— Dexter says probably some basic, hilt-less pocketknife. She stabbed him, then he took the knife and stabbed her a few times, left her where she fell.

Then Carlos went home, cleaned himself up, shoved his shirt under the bed, did something with the knife, like tossed it in a dumpster or the river or something, and moved on with his life. When we went to question him we found six dimebags of heroin just sitting on his desk next to a small caliber pistol, and inside a neighboring cabinet was enough weed to choke a horse.

Fucking genius...

I exhale, step out of the room, head back for the pen and the break area. I've got about six thousand papers to fill out for all the drug charges and evidence processing and about zero desire to start any of it. When Carlos' lawyer arrives, we'll have to go in for round two anyway, so for the moment I can just stand here, pour myself some water, find something to eat.

I get my mug from the drying rack, set it down, open a random cabinet, find a tin of Pringles. I grab it, work off the lid, then lean back against the counter as I munch. Fuck yes, sour cream and onion...

My phone beeps in my pocket, and I shove two chips into my mouth as I pull it out. When I flip it open I feel myself grin automatically at the little message.

_Dinner tonite? I'm buying._

“What're you so happy about?” A voice cuts through my thoughts of possible responses, and I glance up to see Doakes slam his own mug onto the counter and reach for the coffee pot.

“Life,” I say, not entirely sarcastically. “What shit in your cereal?”

“Life,” he grunts, filling his mug with what I can only imagine is lukewarm mud water at this point. “Batista says you've got your guy on the hook for manslaughter.”

“At the least.” I’m still grinning.

“Good for you, Morgan.” He takes a sip, makes a face, takes another. “Fuck this.” He dumps it out in the sink, gives it a quick rinse. “I'll see you later,” he says as he deposits it in the drying rack, then stalks away. He goes past his desk toward the elevator. Maybe he's going for a decent cup of coffee at the truck downstairs.

I eat another Pringle, look back down at my phone, smile again. Rudy. We got together again late last night, talked vaguely about maybe going for another dinner, but I love that he's following through with it, coz in all honesty I would've been fine not to.

Not that I don’t want to.

 _Sounds great,_ I reply, adding a smiley face as an afterthought. Modern communication.

Six chips later, my phone buzzes again, and, crunching quietly, I flip it open.

_See you at 7._

I'm halfway through 'awesome' when Batista appears. “We've got several hours before Pascal's lawyer shows up,” he says, like Doakes heading straight for the coffee.

I finish typing, hit send, shove the thing in my pocket. “Don't bother with that shit,” I say, gesturing at the pot. “Wanna grab lunch while we wait?”

“I just assumed that was your lunch.” He points at the Pringles container, which I've probably eaten half of by now.

“Shut up,” I say, then reach for and pop on the lid, toss the tube back into the cabinet I found it in. “Come on,” I walk past him toward the pen, and he follows, “I could really go for a fat burger right now. With fries.”

“You're in a good mood,” he remarks at my elbow as we head for the elevator.

“Jeez, is that really so shocking for everyone?” I ask, only slightly irked. First Dex yesterday, now Doakes and Batista.

He shrugs. “Something's just different. What's going on?”

“Finding Pascal's not enough?” I ask. “It being a Friday isn't enough?”

“For you?”

I give him a look.

“Fine,” he holds up his hands, “we all have private lives.”

“Yes, we do,” I say as we come to stop outside the elevator. I hit the button. For whatever reason, I don't want to tell Batista that I've started seeing someone, even though usually I wouldn't really give a shit if he or anyone else knew. I didn't tell Dexter either. I'm usually not all that concerned with keeping things private, but at the moment I can feel something holding me back from sharing, something almost like fear. I want this to remain quiet, _ours_ , for just a little longer.

“Rico's sound good to you?” I ask.

“Sounds great,” Batista says.

“Awesome.”

The doors open, and we step inside.

Batista straightens his hat. “You're driving.”

I hit '1.' “Of course I am.”

 


	48. Hit and Run

_ _

_Hit and Run  
_ _Setting: “Circle of Friends”_

* * *

For a second I find myself staring up at the moon, or at the dull suggestion of it anyway, behind the clouds. All around it, vaguely illuminated by the light, are heavy storm clouds, and I can smell the moisture in the air just as well as I can feel it. Any second now it's gonna start raining again.

And wouldn’t that be just picture fucking perfect?

I look back down with sigh. “What a fucking mess,” I mutter.

“Fucking techs better hurry up with getting the cover up,” Doakes growls. He's working his way back to me after having walked a circle around... well, _most_ of the victim. There are body parts all over the street, little pieces of bone and flesh and brain matter speckled and splattered all over the concrete. Vehicle versus pedestrian. Witnesses are saying they saw a dark SUV turn off the road and aim straight for this poor asshole at 50 miles an hour. After the guy exploded against his bumper, whoever was driving tore back onto the road and disappeared. No one caught a plate.

It's 7:29. I should be at a restaurant right now, on a date, or possibly at home doing something else. Instead I'm standing here alongside a long trail of giblets, hoping not to get rained on. Hoping not to have to watch Masuka scrape up brain matter with a dustpan.

“Got the wallet?” I ask Doakes, who's holding it.

“Yeah,” he says, flipping it open and digging through it. “Our vic's Kent Wagner, 32. Looks like he's a sales rep for Wells Fargo.” He hands me a business card from the bank.

“Why would you want to kill a sales representative?” I ask rhetorically, flipping over the card.

“I don't know, Morgan, maybe that's why we're here.”

I glance up from the card to look at him. “This cutting into your Friday night too?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” His tone is vaguely defensive, even for him.

“That's a no,” I say, then snort at his face. “He married?”

He shrugs. “His left arm's not attached.” He points to the bloody mess on the pavement, and I glance at it, look away again, take the wallet from him. My stomach flips a little when it leaves a red streak on my white gloves.

Swallowing the feeling, I paw through the money, find a fat stack of random business and cafe punch cards tucked in the back. In the front is a picture, and I pull it out. “Baby picture,” I say, flipping it so Doakes can see it.

He works his jaw, and we both look over as the gaggle of techs around the majority of the body start raising a canopy over it. Beyond it I can see the flash of my brother's camera as he clicks away, taking pictures of everything that got deteched. Masuka is with him, picking up the chunks after they've been photographed and sticking them in little baggies. An hour ago, this guy was a singular entity, walking down the street. Now all his body parts are going to have be reconsolidated at the morgue.

I wonder if he just got off work for the weekend. I think I passed a Wells Fargo on my way here.

I shiver into my jacket, either at the damp air or the thought.

“I'll run his name in the car,” Doakes says. “See if there's a wife.”

I nod, mutter, “Yeah, alright.” As he walks away I strip off the bloody gloves and head for the canopy, where I stop just outside it to toss them in a biohazard bin. As I snap on a fresh pair, I look down at the scene. Blood and shredded clothing. Kent Wagner’s face is a ruined mess of red, shredded skin and bone, deeply pockmarked by the harsh contrast from all the temporary lights CSU set up around the scene. From the trail of blood on the pavement, he was dragged quite a ways by the bumper before finally falling here. Who knows how much of it he was conscious for. For his sake I hope it was none.

I glance up as I notice someone approach, realize it's my brother. “Hey,” he says, nodding at me as he ducks under the canopy.

“You guys find his arm?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He squats over the dead man and starts photographing.

“Was he wearing a ring?”

Another nod. “Yeah. A gold one.”

“So he was married then,” I mutter.

“Guess so.” The realization doesn't seem to bother him. Then again he's been to a thousand scenes and he doesn't have to make notifications. I glance up as Masuka walks past, heads for the CSU van with a pile of baggies in his grip.

“Have any plans with Rita for the weekend?” I ask, not really wanting to think about what exactly's in those bags.

Dexter shrugs. “Oh, you know, might go over and watch a movie or something with the kids, grab some Chinese.”

“Sounds...” (domestic?) “nice,” I say.

“I think so.” He nods. “What about you? Still avoiding that personal life?”

Indignation rises up my throat, and I almost correct him, but something kills the words before they can leave my mouth. I don't want to tell him about Rudy. It's too soon. This could all go away at any moment, and it's not worth it to tell if the high wears off and he does just disappear. “Fuck off. I have a life,” I say instead.

“Fine.” He takes more pictures, rotates the lens to zoom in on some part of the body that I don't particularly want to look at. “If you say so, Deb.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, more to myself than anything. If I'm honest I'm glad for the weekend, for it to be a Friday night even if I am standing here. I have the weekend to get some space from the Ice Truck Killer case and Neil Perry— because fuck knows if I've decided to believe Dexter or not. I also have the weekend to figure out what's going on with Rudy, for us to maybe figure out what we're doing, or if we even need to figure it out yet.

And then there's Pascal. We've got him dead to rights. Even his attorney is suggesting he plea, and LaGuerta seems interested in the crap he's saying about having dirt on some of the bigger fish in the Miami heroin trade. It feels too weak to take, but, then again, what the fuck do I know? On Monday a decision'll be made one way or another, and that's...

My thoughts trail off as I hear a chiming sound, and I find myself reaching automatically for my phone, as do half the techs. Mine's silent when I take it out though, and so apparently is everyone else's.

“Deb,” Dexter calls my intention as he leans down and plunges his hand into the dead man's pocket. When he pulls it out he's holding a phone.

Oh shit.

“Deb, caller ID says 'Home.' ” He holds the phone out to me expectantly, and it's at this precise moment that it occurs to me that I'm the only officer on scene, and suddenly I can't remember where the fuck Doakes is.

( _shit_ )

Something oily and squirmy pours through my stomach as I reach to take the phone from my brother, but just as I've gotten it it goes silent. In its silence, I feel a deeply selfish wash of relief. Dexter looks up at me, but I turn away from him, try to see Doakes somewhere, remembering he said something about the car. But before I've taken two steps, the phone rings again, and when I look down at the cracked plastic I see the word 'Home' glowing on the little screen again.

( _Oh god what do I do?_ )

( _What if that baby picture's old? What if the daughter's old enough to be calling?_ )

Despite the cold I can feel myself sweat, and I find myself looking at Dexter again, more on impulse than anything. I want to ask him what to do, but I don't see an answer on his face. And then I abruptly turn away again, flip the damn thing open. “Hello?” I say lamely.

“Hello?” I hear back. “Who's this?”

( _shit_ ) “My name is Debra Morgan,” I say. “I'm an officer with Miami Metro Police Department.” There's no reply. “Can I ask who I’m speaking with?”

“Um, Julia Wagner.” Slight Southern accent. “I'm trying to call Kent, my husband. Was his phone stolen or something?”

My tongue feels thick. “You're Julia Wagner?” I repeat stupidly.

“Yes.” The syllable is strained. “Officer, what's going on? Is everything alright?”

( _no_ ) “I'm sorry, there's been...” I trail off, unsure of what to say. This wasn't an accident. “I'm really sorry to tell you this, but your husband is dead.”

Silence on the other end. Then, “What?”

I don't know what to say. I feel like something has plucked me from this place in time, transported me back six years ago to when I had just started taking solo calls, without my TO. “I'm so sorry to tell you like this,” is the best I can come up with. ( _stupid stupid_ )

“How did... what happened?”

( _He was creamed_ ) “He was hit by a car.”

She inhales. “Did you catch the guy?”

We can't do this like this. “Mrs. Wagner,” I say gently, “maybe it would be best to have this conversation in person.”

“You're sure it's him?”

I glance back at the body, at all the techs surrounding it, and suddenly it occurs to me that it's started drizzling. “Yes,” I say. “We're sure.”

“You don't need me to come in? What if... I mean, he could've...”

“I'm sorry,” I say when she doesn't finish the thought. “There's no doubt. We— he had his ID on him.”

“But I just spoke to him...”

“I really think it'd be best to have this conversation in person.”

“No, you're... you're right. I... I can come down.”

“No, that's not necessary,” I say, tearing off my gloves and digging in my pocket for a notepad. “We can come to you. Would you mind giving me your address?”

There's a long pause, then, “237 Velarde Avenue.”

I write that down. “We'll be there as soon as possible.”

Silence.

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” I offer lamely, shoving the pad back in my pocket.

“Thank you. I... have to go. My daughter. We were waiting for dinner. I'll turn the porch light on for you.”

Before I can reply, the call cuts off, and I lower the phone slowly, shiver as the rain comes down harder. Shit.

“You alright?” I hear from behind me, and I turn to see Dexter watching me from his squat over Kent Wagner's corpse.

“Yeah,” I say, shoving down the feelings roiling around inside me. “I've gotta go find Doakes, get a fucking umbrella.” And then I start walking, away from all the temporary lights and the body parts, toward the yellow tape and the cars parked beyond it. I see Doakes on the phone in the driver's seat as I duck under the tape and walk toward him. I wonder what the hell's so important that he wasn't with me just now. I shouldn't have answered that call.

“Right,” he's saying as I stop beside the open door. “Yeah. Well, we'll fucking take care of it Monday.” Pause. He glances up at me. “I have to go.” And then he clicks off. “Need an umbrella, Morgan?” he asks.

My hair's already sticking to my face, but I'm still thinking about the conversation I just had. “His wife called,” I say, holding up the phone.

“And you answered?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I nod.

He glances down. “Sorry you had to do that.”

“I told her we'd go to her to explain what happened.”

If that was the wrong call to make, he doesn't say it. Instead he rises from the car. “Alright, I'll go see how far along the techs are. We need to get the body off the road anyway before this fucking rain gets any worse.” And then he looks at me with uncharacteristic sympathy. “Why you don't you take a minute, sit out of the rain?”

“I'm fine,” I say. “Just let me grab an umbrella.”

His gaze traces over me for a second. “Alright,” he says finally, with a nod. “I’ll see you over there then.” And then he walks to and under the tape, heads back to the bright blue canopy.

For a beat I don’t move, just stand here and watch him go. I feel strangely grateful for his brusqueness, for the fact that he didn’t feel the need to probe my feelings. Somehow it makes the prospect of what we’re going to have to do once we leave this scene seem more manageable.

And then I open the car’s back door and climb half inside to dig around the floor for my umbrella. When I find it I settle back against the seat, gripped by a sudden, random impulse. I set Kent Wagner's phone down beside me along with my crumpled gloves, then reach for my own phone, flip it open and scroll through recent contacts, open the messenger.

 _Want to come over tonight?_ I type.

For a second I sit here, feeling the cold air from the storm blow into the car and listening to the rain tap on the roof. Blue and red lights flash everywhere around the street, and just beyond the police cars I can see small huddles of people looking on, all trying to get a look at what's under the canopy.

Then my phone lights up again, and for some reason I smile at Rudy's reply. _I thought you were working?_

 _I am. After,_ I type, hit send.

 _Definitely,_ he replies within a handful of seconds.

I smile a little wider. _I'll call u_

_OK_

Exhaling, I shove my phone back into my pocket, grab Kent Wagner's off the seat, then slide out of the car with my umbrella. For some reason, just knowing I'll be seeing him again tonight makes me feel better about all this, about that call I just answered and about the pile of meat that used to be a man on the sidewalk. It makes me feel like I can handle all this.

So with a breath, I push open my umbrella, move to follow Doakes. We've got a long night ahead of us.

 


	49. Groan

_ _

_Groan  
_ _Setting: “Circle of Friends”_

* * *

Saturday morning.

On impulse, I reach over, grope around the nightstand for my watch, then pop open an eye and realize it's still on my wrist. I glance at the screen, then throw my arm back across my face. 6:39. It occurs to me within a moment that the other half of the bed is empty, and then it registers that I can hear the TV in the other room.

So he's still here, and he's up, and he's watching TV.

For some reason, that makes me smile.

But I don't want to move yet.

I exhale, feel myself sink into the mattress. The image of last night's scene pops into my head, all that gore on the pavement, and then the trip over to Coral Gables. That nice, perfectly manicured lawn, the collection of wind chimes on the porch, all those little flowers in pots, and Julia Wagner and her toddler daughter. Doakes was barely anymore comfortable than I was, though for different reasons. Mr. Special Ops couldn't call up a mask of sympathy if his life depended on it. Me, I just didn't know what the fuck to do. I don't want to build a connection with loved ones, don't want to offer my shoulder to cry on, don't want to watch them vomit their hearts out. I didn't want to have to sit there and see that little girl clinging to her mother (will she even remember her father?), didn't want to have to offer my empty platitudes. But despite all that I still walked away with an ache in my chest and a sick feeling at the back of my throat, because I _did_ feel something when we talked to that woman. Way too fucking much.

Monday bright and early we've got Pascal to deal with, and now Kent Wagner. I still have no earthly idea why someone would want to cream a sales rep with their car, and Doakes wasn't exactly full of ideas beyond “it could be the wife.” I don't want to believe I could've been so utterly fooled by that woman. It felt like we destroyed her life last night, like I destroyed it by being the one who answered that phone, and I'd feel like such an asshole if she really played me that well.

Exhaling, I roll off the bed, grab a nightshirt off the chair and slip it on, then yank open a dresser drawer and locate a pair of undies. Slipping into it, I head for the bathroom.

Six minutes later I trudge down the hall with an empty bladder and fresher breath, come out into the living room.

“Morning,” I say, spotting Rudy lounging on the couch. Pants but no shirt.

“Morning,” he says. “There's coffee if you want some.”

“Fuck I want some,” I mutter, heading for the kitchen. There waiting for me in the machine is a fat pot of coffee, and with a feeling of relief I open my dishwasher and grab a mug, fill it up. Add some creamer from the fridge, take a sip.

“Yes,” I hiss to myself, taking another. Then I walk into the living room, set the mug on my coffee table. “Morning,” I say again, leaning down to kiss him. We share a moment, then I separate. “Scoot,” I say, and he lifts up enough for me to get under him, then lays his head back down on my lap. “How long've you been up?”

He clears his throat. “I don't know, an hour maybe. Figured I'd let you sleep.”

“Should've stayed in bed,” I say, running my fingers through his hair. “It's Saturday.”

“I'm an early riser.”

“Hm,” I grunt, then reach over him for my coffee. Taking a sip, I finally bother to look at the screen. “What're we watching?”

“The news,” he says.

“The Ice Truck Killer,” I correct, more to myself than anything. I feel him shift on top of me, and I set my coffee on the arm rest. “That's Captain Matthews, my boss’ boss,” I say. “Think this was the press release he did on Thursday.”

“Your case right? The Ice Truck Killer?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm one of the people who were on it.”

“How come I haven't seen you on any of these press things?” He rolls over to look up at me.

I snort. “You’re kidding, right? This guy's a big fucking deal, and I'm just an officer. Add to that, I’m a fresh face in Homicide. Even LaGuerta got bumped off the media circus by Captain Matthews.”

“LaGuerta,” he repeats. “Your lieutenant, right?”

“Right,” I say, then grin. “God it's so sweet to watch her getting fucked over for once.”

“I'm guessing from your tone she's been busy fucking you over?”

“With an iron rod,” I reply, then lean down and kiss him again. And for awhile, we just do that, his hands traveling under and up my shirt, mine down his stomach, a tangle of lips and fingers, and Matthews’ droning assurances fade into the periphery as he sits up to kiss me deeper. This I can do. This I know how to do. And he knows how to do it so well too.

I groan under his touch as he smooshes me against the couch. I think distantly about the coffee on the arm rest, but somehow it doesn't seem to matter.

And then suddenly I'm on my back and he's on top of me and he's kissing my neck and I don't even...

“Did you have any plans for today?” I ask-whisper, wrapping my leg around his.

“I don't know,” he says.

“Coz I don't.” I exhale as his head comes up and he presses his forehead against mine. I can see the lust in his gaze, as I feel his hand travel slowly down my stomach. “I'm free to do... whatever.” I kiss him again.

“I'm free to do whatever too,” he replies. Another kiss, deeper, longer. His fingers have reached the panty line. “Right here.”

I giggle into his mouth. “There's coffee on the arm rest.”

“Who cares?” His fingers work their way under. I inhale sharply.

“Seriously,” I say, trying to sit up, but he pins me down flat, swallows my breath with a hard, hungry kiss that makes something inside me turn to cream. As his fingers continue southward. When he finally comes up to breathe, he still hasn't taken his weight off my chest, and I stare up at him, barely able to keep a straight thought in my head. I’m hot all over.

“Just move the fucking coffee,” I manage.

He sighs like it's the biggest fucking deal in the world, lets me go as he sits up, twists and grabs the mug. After he sets it on the coffee table he suddenly grabs my wrists and drags them above my head. And then he’s kissing me again. And he’s pulling my underwear the rest of the way off.

Rudy.

I don't know what the fuck we're doing, and I don't care. I just want this moment to last forever, this weekend. I want...

I strain against his grip but give up as he travels down my stomach with his lips, pushes up my shirt. Rock against his fingers, wrap around his hand, his legs.

I want... I want...

I close my eyes and groan.

 


	50. Private

_ _

_Private  
_ _Setting: “Shrink Wrap”_

* * *

“It's official. We're never going to see the sun again.”

“It's supposed to clear up tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure, have you even looked outside? We should flee inland before the state finally sinks into the ocean.”

“Yeah, do us all a favor.” Doakes looks up from something on his desk, fixes his gaze on Masuka. “What the fuck do you want with me, fairywinkle?”

The lab tech stares back at him, says deadpan, “You know, words can hurt.”

He doesn’t say anything, just glares at him.

He sighs. “I need your signature on these.”

Doakes grunts and takes the pages Masuka holds out, clicks his pen. As he sets them on his desk, Masuka glances over, notices me watching. Then he smiles. “What's up, Morgan?”

I ignore him, look back down at all my own papers scattered all over my desk. Between Pascal and all the drug busts we made I'm still not on top of all my paperwork, and that's not to mention everything we dug up today on the Wagners. Happy Monday.

When I glance up again, Masuka's right by my desk, staring down at me, and I jump a little, mutter a, “Jeez, creep much?”

“Who've you been texting all day?” he asks.

“What?” I say, rolling my chair away from him.

“You've been on your phone half the day.” He looks at it pointedly, then at me. “What're you up to, Morgan? Who're you talking to?”

“First of all,” I grab my phone off my desk and shove it in my pocket, suddenly feeling like there's a possibility that he might try to take it, “why the fuck are you watching me? Second of all, it's none of your goddamn business.”

“I knew it,” he says. “Your denial screams louder than a—”

“I'm only gonna say this once,” I cut him off before he can invent some obnoxious metaphor, “mind your own fucking business.”

He stares up at me, grinning. “Got any nudes on there?”

“Masuka,” I say with a tone full of flint, then exhale and move past him for the break area, ignoring Batista's smiling look as I walk by. Suddenly I need coffee. Lots of coffee. It's irritating that he noticed. If Masuka noticed then Doakes almost certainly did too, and thanks to his loud mouth now everyone else is aware too.

I have been texting Rudy, but that's not anyone's fucking business. We're seeing each other. We're allowed to communicate.

I grab my mug, pour in some lukewarm coffee, then put it in the microwave and hit the minute button. As I'm standing there waiting, Batista approaches slowly, an apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry, we've talked about having him fixed,” he says.

“What about euthanized?” I ask irritably, crossing my arms.

“We've talked about that too.” He reaches for the jumbo bucket of Twizzlers on the counter, pops off the lid, shoves a few sticks into his mouth.

Masuka looks at us from Doakes' desk. “You know I can hear you,” he says.

Despite myself, I snort, leaning back against the counter. After a second's deliberation I reach over and grab one of the licorice strands, bite off a piece.

“So, what is going on?” Batista asks, watching me.

Now I'm glaring at him. “Nothing. Why is everyone so fucking curious about my personal life all of a sudden?” I chew and swallow the piece, bite off another hunk.

He shrugs. “Who doesn't love a little office gossip?”

“At the moment?” I let the question hang as the microwave beeps, and I turn to hit the button, take out my coffee. It occurs to me as I munch on the licorice that I've made a mistake in trying to consume the two at the same time, but... whatever. I grab the powdered creamer and stir it in, then bring it and the rest of the Twizzler to my desk. After a beat, Batista returns to his own desk, and he doesn't ask me anything else. As I eat the rest of the licorice, Masuka heads back to his nest without further comment, pages in hand.

Peace. Finally.

I look back down at my desk. Photographs from traffic cams are piled on one side, lying somewhere between the autopsy report and the notes from this morning's interview with Julia Wagner. There were no plates on the SUV that smeared her husband across the block, and so far I'm running the theory that it was probably stolen, though, who knows, maybe the guy scraped the guts off his bumper, reattached his plates, and is still using the car. Unfortunately the traffic cam picture of the driver is of a fuzzy face in a ski mask, so we still aren't sure if we're looking for a man or a woman. Doakes is convinced it's the wife, and he's been looking through their financials for the past hour to prove his theory, but I'm not sure. Her grief felt real to me.

But she doesn't have an alibi, and she easily could've dumped the car somewhere, switched to her own, and driven home. There was enough time between her husband's death and when she called his cell. Then again, as far as we can tell, she didn't hire a babysitter yesterday, and the nanny left promptly at 5:30 when Julia came home from work. So, what? She strapped her daughter into the car seat, drove over to the bank and sat on it until she saw her husband, put on a ski mask, then ran him down? I mean, there's sick, and then there's fucked up...

Then again, I thought the same thing about the Valerie Castillo and her husband.

Exhaling, I go back to my computer and continue scrolling through car theft reports. So far I've turned up six possibles in the last two weeks, but I'm still having a little trouble imagining a one-hundred-pound suburban mother jacking a car and keeping it hidden somewhere for a few weeks while she plotted her husband's grisly demise. For that matter, why not just sprinkle some arsenic in his coffee?

But we've got no other viable suspects, assuming no one's lying. Everyone at the bank seemed to like him— said he was just a regular guy, good at small talk, but had spent most of his social time lately showing off baby pictures and talking about his daughter. Most of his single friends have fallen out of his life, and he hasn't really made any married ones yet. And his parents...

I'm glad I was enjoying my Saturday when they came in. I don't envy Doakes his shitty luck in drawing the weekend shift.

“Morgan.” I look up to see Doakes looking at me. “Found something.”

“Yeah?” I say, getting up and wandering over to him.

“Bank finally gave us access to that card we found in his desk,” he says, glancing back at me.

“That Chase account?” I ask, remembering that witty comment I made this morning about brand loyalty, which he didn’t laugh at.

“Yeah.” He points to his screen. “Anything look weird to you?”

I lean over him, grab the mouse and scroll through the records. “Jeez,” I mutter. “There's over sixty grand in here.”

“Building up from a lot of smaller deposits,” he says. “All in cash.”

I read the numbers silently. 2k here, 10k there, five hundred, a thousand, another thousand. Random dates and random times, and then several large withdrawals. “That's weird,” I say.

“No shit,” he replies.

I glance back at him. “Where the hell was all this coming from? He have a secret night job as a high-class whore?”

He shrugs. “I don't know, but we need to call the wife, get her to come back in here. Her name's not on the account, so who knows if she even knew about it.”

I voice my first thought, “Was he stealing from the bank?”

Another shrug. “I don't know, but we'll be calling them too.”

“Are these withdrawals tied to deposits in one of his other accounts?”

He looks at me, then glances at the papers on his desk. “I don't know. I only just got into the account.”

“Well, let's check.” I lean forward again, scroll up to the top of the records. “Two weeks ago, on the 5th, he withdrew—”

The screen abruptly cuts out, as does all the light in the building.

“Fuck,” I mutter, glancing outside as I stand up straight. There seems to be light coming in from the street, though I can hear the wind and rain pounding against the window.

And then, suddenly, the lights all flicker back on. When I glance back, LaGuerta is standing in the doorway of her office, glaring up at the ceiling. Without a word, she walks back inside and closes the door. She's been especially pissy since Matthews took credit for the Neil Perry arrest, and I'm sure the power outage isn't going to do anything to improve her mood.

“Internet's dead.” I turn to see Masuka standing in front of the fishbowl near my desk. He looks at Doakes. “I told you the world was ending.”

“It wouldn't surprise me if you downloading your fucking midget porn is what caused the outage to begin with,” my partner growls, then stands up, stretches his arms. I back off a little, feeling slightly deflated. I was just getting into a groove.

“We'll check on the deposits after the power comes back,” he says, then makes a face. “Fuck, I'm gonna have to call the bank and get another password...” His voice trails off as he walks over to the break area, probably wanting some shitty coffee to numb the pain.

That reminds me of my own coffee, and I head back to my desk, thoughts buzzing. The wife never mentioned her husband having a private account. Did she know? What does it mean if she didn't?

Just as I sit and take a sip, Dexter walks up and plops into the chair next to my desk, looking ever so slightly annoyed.

“What's up?” I ask.

“I was logging,” he says, staring off into space. “I don't know how much time I just lost.”

I reach over and pat his shoulder, take another sip of coffee. Lukewarm and disappointing. And too much creamer.

Why do I bother?

My brother turns to look at me. “Masuka says you've been texting someone all day?”

I feel my expression fall, and I set my mug down. “All of you just need to fuck right off.”

He holds up his hands. “It's none of my business.”

I nod, wishing I had something to occupy my hands with. “Damn straight,” I say, deciding to just pick up the mug again.

He schlumps back in the seat. “So, want to get dinner tonight?”

I look at him suspiciously, wondering if this is his way of wheedling me into telling him what's going on. “You're not having dinner with Rita?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “She's working late. Paul's got the kids for dinner and that would be...”

“A mess?” I offer, still kind of floored by the fact that she gave him visitation.

“I was going to go with awkward.” He smiles at me. “So what do you say?”

Damn him. “Sorry, Dex, I've got plans tonight.”

I can practically hear the thought click in his head, and I give him a look as he opens his mouth. “It's none of my business,” is what comes out.

I give him a pained smile.

He sighs and gets up. “Guess I'll go see what happened in there,” he says.

“Good luck,” I say, watching him walk away.

I look down at my desk, not feeling particularly bad about not telling Dexter what's going on. Everyone's got their secrets, and everyone's got a right to keep some of their shit private. And maybe at this point with me it’s less a right than an obligation. I always blab way too fucking much, usually about three seconds before everything implodes. Then again...

I look back down at the papers.

Some secrets are more interesting than others.

 


	51. Heavy Rain

_ _

_Heavy Rain  
_ _Setting: “Shrink Wrap”_

* * *

“Shit,” I mutter to myself as a gust of wind shakes up the manicured treeline I've been using for cover, sending a deluge down onto me and my umbrella. The pavement is a river under my feet as I half jog to the four thousand square foot mansion and up the concrete steps. As I hit the doorbell I can't help but remember that an hour ago Rudy and I were entangled on the couch with half-eaten take out sitting on my coffee table and about a hundred candles lit around the room. The power in my place hasn't gone out, but he showed up at my doorstep with a box of candles and a pack of Durex, so we killed the lights and made believe.

And then my phone rang.

I close my umbrella and shake it off on the stoop, some tiny part of me wanting to locate a mirror so I can determine the damage, some other part of me wishing I was doing something else. Somewhere else.

Half the station got called out to this one. According to Doakes, Vanessa Gayle had a lot of money and a lot of important friends, and if this was a homicide then the DA's office is going to be out for blood. Which means LaGuerta'll be showing up with the news vans any minute, I'm sure...

I hit the doorbell again, realizing I'm hearing the sound of faint barking over the general onslaught of the downpour all around me. And then a shadow through the glass, and the door opens slightly.

Two couched eyes glare at me suspiciously through the crack. At the sound of nails on wood, I glance down to see two white snouts pushing at the older woman's ankles. “What?” she barks, looking at me as if I might be planning to steal something or possibly fuck up her shrubbery.

Then again, I probably look like shit. “Hi, my name is Officer Morgan,” I say, badging her. “I'm with Miami Metro Homicide. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Nothing in her face has relaxed, and when I glance down again I can see that one of the snouts has pushed through to a face. When I make eye contact with the terrier, he starts barking.

Fucking little dogs...

“Stop!” she says, pulling him and the other dog back in by the collars. They're still barking as she stands up straight and readjusts the crack in the door. I still can't see more than sixty percent of her face. I wonder if there's even the slightest possibility that she'd be willing to come out and talk to me or, godforbid, let me inside where it’s dry.

“What kind of questions?” she asks.

“Let's start with your name.” I unzip my jacket pocket and pull out of a pad of paper and a pen.

She doesn't answer for a second, then, “What's this about?”

I can feel my good mood from the endorphin high starting to chip away. “Your neighbor, Vanessa Gayle, was found dead in her home less than two hours ago.”

She stares at me, then glances past me, though from here she can't see all the police cars up the block. Maybe with the storm she didn't hear any sirens, had no idea something was going on.

“Now, your name?” I ask again.

“Dawn Peters,” she says after a beat, meeting my eyes again.

I write that down. “You live alone?”

“No, but my husband's in New York on business right now.”

I nod. “How well did you know the Gayles?”

“Just from the HOA meetings. To be honest, I didn't even know her first name.”

Great. “So you couldn't tell me anything about the state of their marriage, if anything has seemed off with Vanessa lately?”

An excited sort of look passes across her face, and she opens the door a little more, leaning forward. “How did she die?”

“I can't really—” I start to say.

She cuts me off. “Did he do it? I always thought that guy was too young and too unemployed to be married to her.”

Fanfuckingtastic. Dawn's an HLN fan. Bet I tore her away from Nancy Grace when I rang the doorbell. “I'm sorry, but I can't release any details,” I say as professionally as possible, trying to quash the annoyance. “So you can't tell me anything? Didn't notice anything out of the ordinary around their house or the neighborhood recently?”

I see a slight movement from beyond the door that might be a shrug. “I work a lot, and, like I said, I didn't know them personally.” She eyes me kind of hungrily. “You did say you’re with the homicide department, right? Are you sure you can't tell me what happened?”

“Yes, I am with Homicide, ma’am, but I'm sorry,” I don’t mean either syllable, “it's against protocol for me to discuss specifics with you.”

I can see her interest fading rapidly at the realization that she's not going to be getting any dirt from me. I exhale softly, reach into my pocket. “If you think of anything that might help,” I find a card and pull it out, “don't hesitate to call.”

She takes it, glances down at it. “Alright, Detective.”

I don't bother correcting her. “Thanks for your time,” I say.

“You're welcome.” And then the door snaps closed.

For a moment, I just stand here, suddenly really wanting a cigarette and really wanting to light it on her stoop, but I push the urge aside, open up my umbrella instead. When I turn around it’s to re-realize that the rain’s absolutely coming down in sheets, and, with an immense lack of desire, I step back into it, head toward the street.

Fifty-odd minutes later, I've hit up the six other adjacent houses and have learned exactly nothing except for the fact that the Gayles weren't particularly neighborly— beyond sightings during morning jogs or HOA meetings or the occasional simultaneous trash take-out, no one around here really knew Vanessa. Two of them knew she was a lawyer, three of them knew her husband is an 'artist' with implied air quotes, and all of them knew she was loaded and supported him. Slightly more significantly, only one of them bothered to notice that I look like a rat in a windstorm and offered me something hot to drink.

Feeling like whatever's left of my good mood has been washed down the street by the storm, I make my way back to the scene, heading between the cruisers and up and around the stoop. The door's still open when I reach it, and I see some techs milling around but no one I know as I step inside. I stop at the foot of the stairs, hearing Doakes and Batista's voices but not sure if it's coming from up there or some adjacent room.

When I decide to try for a room, I turn to find Masuka staring at me. Grossly.

“If a single word comes out of your mouth that doesn't have to do with the dead chick, I'm going to tear your balls off and hunt ostriches with them,” I say.

“Kinky,” he says.

Feeling some internal twig snap, I advance on him, and to my satisfaction he backs away. Really, it would be a public service to club him like a baby seal...

“Morgan.” A voice stops me, and turn to see Doakes and Batista walking in from the door I was just considering going through. “You get anything from the neighbors?” the former asks.

“A steaming can of shit all,” I reply, giving up on the idea of murdering the bald little dweeb and walking over to the detectives.

He nods. “Coroner's about to take the body. Techs are pretty much finished here.”

“We thinking suicide?” I ask.

“Won't know for sure until after the autopsy, but that's what it looks like. Gunshot residue on the hands, the right trajectory.” He studies me and almost seems to soften. “There's nothing really left to do here. Unless you want to babysit the techs with me, you can head home, dry off. Tomorrow we've got interviews.”

I nod. “Sounds good.”

“I gotta head home,” Batista says. “See you guys tomorrow.”

“Alright,” I say, as Doakes gives a nod. He shuffles out the door, opening up a huge black umbrella as he goes.

“Is my brother still around?” I ask Doakes, who's walking toward the door too.

He shakes his head, grabs his umbrella from where it's leaning against a wall. “He left right after you went to canvas. Why?” He turns around. “Need a lift?”

So he noticed that I didn't drive here. “No,” I lie. “Just wanted to ask him something. It can wait.”

“Uh huh,” he mutters. “I gotta go make sure the scene's cordoned off. Only a matter of time before the press gets a hold of this.” And with that he pushes the umbrella open and heads out into the deluge.

It's not until he's safely gone that I reach into my pocket for my phone. _I'm done,_ I type. _Pick me up._

Twenty seconds pass, and then the plastic vibrates in my hand. _Finally. 10 minutes._

 _Hurry,_ I reply, grinning, then drop it back in my pocket.

When I look up I remember that Masuka's still standing in the room, and I glance over to see him grinning at me. I groan. “Don't you having fucking anywhere else to be?”

“I'm right where I belong,” he says.

I make a face. “I'm going upstairs.”

“Was that Mr. Prosthetics?” he calls after me as I tromp up the stairs, but I don't bother taking the bait. I remember Doakes saying Vanessa Gayle shot herself in her tub. I don't really need to see her body, but I've got time, and I can't stop a slight feeling of morbid curiosity.

There are still techs milling around the bedroom when I get there, but I ignore them, head straight for the bathroom. Besides the temporary light, for whatever reason there's no one in here. And then I glance right, stop short and glance away as my stomach jerks.

Jesus.

I look again, not really wanting to but curious anyway. The woman in the tub's got a huge hole in the back of her head, brain matter and blood all over the white tile. Her mouth's open in a grotesque sort of groan, mouth framed by blood already drying to her skin.

She put a gun in her mouth and shot herself naked in her third-full tub, surrounded by floofy bath products and...

I glance at the weird glass sculptures around the bathroom.

...ugly art.

I wonder how many things had to go wrong in her life for her to decide that this was the way to go: a red red mess all over the walls of her otherwise spotless, fancy bathroom. She was in her mid-thirties, powerful, and, from what I'm piecing together, probably had a promising career ahead of her. Why would she decide to eat a gun? Is there a reason that would make sense?

“Excuse me,” I hear from behind me, and I turn to see a couple people wearing Coroner jackets with a stretcher standing on the Persian rug, looking at me like I’m a roadblock.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, then get out of the way. Feeling kind of uncomfortable, I walk away from the bathroom, head out of the bedroom and stop at the solid wood railing.

Fuck it, it's not my job to have an opinion. I'll follow Doakes' lead, act on whatever declaration the autopsy makes. Regardless, tomorrow I have a meeting with Pascal's lawyer, and Doakes and I have to dig up the dirt on Kent Wagner's secret account. If Vanessa Gayle really did off herself, it's one less name on the board for us to deal with.

I pause at my own thoughts, wondering if this is how my father used to think.

Exhaling, I pull out of my phone again. _How close are you?_

 _Getting there,_ is the eventual reply.

Nodding to myself, I put it back in my pocket, head down the stairs.

 


	52. Supposition

_ _

_Supposition  
_ _Setting: “Shrink Wrap”_

* * *

“Right. Thanks for your time.”

“I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help. Feel free to reach out to me again if you have anymore questions.”

“We'll do that. Thank you.” I drop my phone back into its cradle, then lean back. “If we want more vague-isms,” I mutter to myself.

Doakes looks up at me from his desk. “Meridian give you anything?”

I half shrug. “He said she had a history of depression, but privilege ties his hands from telling us anything more specific. Did confirm she had had suicidal thoughts in the past.”

He nods. “So far, everything's pointing to suicide.”

I pick up my coffee. “But you're still thinking it's the husband?”

He makes a noncommittal sort of grunt, pauses as if to reconsider, then opens his mouth. “Hard not to,” is what comes out. “Guy from a middle-class family, no job, marries an older, high-powered attorney from a wealthy family.”

“Maybe they fell in love,” Batista chimes in, looking up from whatever he's working on.

Doakes looks at him irritably. “Maybe that wasn't enough for him. He decided he was sick of having an allowance, killed her so he could have her money and her life insurance to top it off.”

“Or,” I say, “stress of her high-powered job got to her. Both her and her husband are used to a certain lifestyle, but he's not willing to stop fucking...” I grope for a word, “glass blowing long enough to get a real income stream, so she can't cut her hours. She's been having a string of bad luck in court lately, marriage was falling apart. No children, no one left alive in her family. She recently went off her antidepressants. Maybe she had a bad day yesterday, popped one, shot herself when nothing felt any better.”

They both just look at me for a second. “You get all that from the shrink?” Doakes asks after a beat.

“I am capable of forming my own conclusions,” I say. “Besides, he didn't seem surprised when I told him she was dead. Maybe he can't confirm or deny anything, but he sure as shit didn't say anything to make me think he wasn't expecting this.”

He looks at me with something that could possibly be interpreted as respect if I were feeling more optimistic. “I guess we'll just have to wait for the autopsy report and the tox screen.”

I nod, look back down at the statement form I was writing notes in during my conversation with Dr. Emmett Meridian, reach for my pen. As I start scribbling in more verbiage I see a uniform walk past my desk from my upper periphery, and I glance up when he stops by my partner's desk. “Sergeant Doakes,” he says.

“What?” is the reply.

“Got a guy in there waiting,” he replies, shifting. “Says he's got information on Kent Wagner.”

I look up further this time, make eye contact with Doakes, whose gaze goes from me back to the officer. “He say what kind of information?”

He shakes his head. “He says he thinks he knows why he was murdered.”

Another eye graze, and then we both get up. I can feel the burn of curiosity in my chest as I watch Doakes walk around his desk and follow the uniform past me and into the hall, and I quickly move to trail them. The other cop walks to a normal-looking guy standing near the elevator. Black slacks and a matching, cheap blazer over a starched white shirt and bland tie, loosened at the collar. Glasses, hair spray, wedding ring. Somewhere between 31 and 36.

“I'm Sergeant Doakes,” Doakes opens, then nods at me. “This is Officer Morgan.”

“Jim Dennis,” he says. He looks at us both nervously before holding out his hand. We all shake. His palm is sweaty. “Is there somewhere we could talk?” he asks as I try to casually wipe my hand on my pants.

“There's an interview room right down the hall,” Doakes says. “But, before that, would you mind telling us why you're here?”

“Like I told the other officer, uh, Mitchells?” He exhales, continues, “I think I know why Kent's... well, why what happened to him happened. He was into some stuff.” He catches Doakes' eye with a meaningful sort of look.

I glance at Doakes, whose gaze is still trained on Dennis. That much we had figured from his bank records.

“Morgan,” he says after a beat. “Go take Mr. Dennis to an open room. I'll be there in a minute.”

“Right.” I nod as Nervous Guy looks at me. “Come on,” I say to him as Doakes separates and walks back into the pen. “It's just down here.” I gesture up the hall, and he starts walking without preemption. Whatever it is that he knows, clearly he wants to get it off his chest.

As I follow him I wonder if Kent was having an affair. Doakes is holding onto the spouse theory in both our cases. I still don't know if I believe it was the wife, but somewhere between the secret account and whatever it is that Dennis is about to tell us, I could be convinced.

Then again, I _did_ believe her, and I still do. Maybe I don't have a percentage of Doakes' experience with Homicide, but my experience as a human being has to count for something.

“Take a seat,” I say, opening the door to one of the interview rooms and gesturing Nervous Guy inside. After we both enter he does so with a sense of relief, then looks up at me expectantly, but I stay on my feet by the door. For all we know, this guy could be our suspect, waltzing in here the same way Perry did— (has Dex really convinced me that he somehow framed himself?). I might as well keep the height advantage until Doakes gets here.

Of course, no sooner have I thought this than my partner appears in the doorway with a folder and a pad of notepaper in tow. We exchange eye contact before he strides forward and pulls out a seat. I grab the chair beside him as he plops down and sets his stuff on the table.

“I think Kent was a loan shark,” Dennis blurts out, so suddenly that it seems to surprise him almost as much as it surprises us. I find myself pausing mid-sit.

“A loan shark?” Doakes repeats after a beat.

I feel my eyebrows bump south as I look at the guy across the table, finally dropping the rest of the way into the chair.

He looks at us nervously. “I know it sounds crazy. Kent seems— seemed like such a great guy, you know? And he was. I mean, he was always talking about his kid, was always happy to help, always bought eight or nine boxes of Girl Scout cookies from my daughter...” His eyes flick up from the table, graze mine, land on Doakes', and he stops.

“Let's back up, Mr. Dennis,” Doakes says, clicking his pen. “How did you know Kent Wagner?”

“Oh, we work at the same bank,” he replies. “I've known him five years.”

Doakes scribbles that down, then opens the folder and thumbs through the papers inside for a moment before pulling out a sheet. When I glance at it I recognize it as the employee registry for the bank. “You weren't available for our interviews yesterday?” he asks as I spot Dennis' name on the list.

He shakes his head. “No, I— sorry, I've had to take some time off work. My wife's in North Carolina with her mother, and my son's been sick and he couldn't be home alone. I heard about Kent on the news.” He pauses, looks between us, and his gaze stops on me. Maybe I look like the least threatening of the two of us (then again, next to Doakes, anyone might seem more friendly...). “That's okay, right?”

“You're here now,” I say. “That's all that matters.”

He exhales and slumps into his chair slightly.

“What do you mean, Kent was a loan shark?” I ask, still caught on the revelation, too impatient to let Doakes take the reins again.

Dennis shifts, glances around. “It's...” His voice trails off as he keeps searching the air for answers. Finally his gaze stops on me, and he sticks his wrists on the table as he stares at my face. “A few years ago,” he says, lowering his tone as if he’s afraid someone besides us might hear him, “well, it got hard. We'd just had our son, moved to a bigger place. Elise— my wife —she took an extended leave, because, you know, she wanted to spend time with the kids...” He pauses and his gaze slides down. His mouth reopens when he meets my eyes again. “She doesn't handle the finances, didn't realize we couldn't afford the leave, and I didn't want to tell her. And, you know, I don't know, I must've been talking about it at work or something, coz the next thing I know Kent's pulling me aside at lunch to ask if I need a loan.” Another stop.

The intensity with which he's studying my face is starting to make me uncomfortable, like he's trying to see something inside of me. Suddenly I wonder if this is some kind of confession and he's hoping that I'm can offer him absolution.

I call an encouraging smile to my face, lean forward and place my own hands on the table, close to his but not close enough that he might think it's an invitation to touch me. “So you took it?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “Well, I mean, I did, but... not at first. But then it turned out we had some major plumbing issues in the house, and Elise went back to work to make sure we didn't go under water between the new mortgage and the bills. But, I mean, we already _were_ under water. Figuratively, and a little literally— _ha ha._ ” He laughs briefly and a little nervously, as he taps his fingers together on the table. “Anyway, that’s when I took it.”

“How much?” I ask, not sure if it's relevant but wanting to know anyway.

“Twelve grand.”

My brows hike, and it takes a measure of self-control not to glance at Doakes. “You accepted twelve thousand dollars from a co-worker?” I ask.

“It was a loan,” he says quickly. “But I was surprised when he didn't make me sign a contract. Just a promissory note.”

Now I'm staring at him. I don't think I could even ask Dex for twelve grand, let alone some co-worker who barely exists to me outside the office. “And this is why you think Kent was a loan shark?” I ask.

“Well...” He trails off. “Yeah.”

We both just sit here for a second. Then Doakes breaks the silence before it quite finishes settling. “Did Kent Wagner ever threaten you?” he asks.

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Was he charging you interest on the loan?”

“Ten percent,” he says.

Doakes glances at me, then back at Dennis. “How often were your repayments?”

“Just when I could make them. It took something like a year and a half, little over.” He looks at me again.

I blink. “What exactly makes you think he was a loan shark?”

He shrugs. “Well, why else would you offer a loan like that to some guy you just work with?”

I don't know, but it's not like the guy's got a record or any connection to organized crime. I glance at Doakes, hoping he'll take the lead here.

He does. “Do you know of anyone else Mr. Wagner might've loaned money to?”

Dennis shakes his head.

“Did you ever ask why he lent you the money?” I ask.

Another head shake. “Frankly, Detective, I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth, you know? It was either take the money or tell my wife and try to sell the car.” He leans forward, a shadow passing across his face. “You won't tell her, will you?”

“That's not exactly our purview...” I say, then glance left as Doakes leans back.

He catches my eye, then looks at Dennis. “Mr. Dennis, will you excuse us for a moment?”

Did I do something? I think automatically, and maybe a little paranoically.

When Nervous Guy nods, Doakes gets up, and I follow suit, wondering how I possibly could've fucked up. I head out the door first, and the sergeant closes the door behind me as I turn and arch my brows at him.

“What's your take?” he asks me, instead of giving me the reaming I was expecting— though I'm not sure why I was expecting it.

I shrug. “Guy's not exactly the brightest star in the sky.” I pause. “You buying this loan shark thing?”

“No.” He crosses his arms. His sleeves seem to strain over his biceps. “But our vic clearly had some kind of steady cash flow that the wife didn't know about.”

I glance through the one-way mirror at our interviewee. “Think it was illegal?”

It's his turn to shrug. “We're gonna need to talk to his friends again, see if maybe they know what kind of shit he was into.” He exhales. “Why don't you go and call in that guy we talked to yesterday, Donald Martinez? I'll finish up with him.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, though I can’t help wondering if he's removing me from the interview for the sake of time or for the sake of something else.

He nods, then uncrosses his arms and heads back inside, shutting the door behind him. For a second I watch him retake his seat across from Dennis, then I turn and head back to the bullpen and my desk, wondering all the way if I should read anything into this.

Plopping into my chair, I grab the Wagner file and look for the contact sheet on the dead guy's friend. Once I find it, I'm halfway toward reaching for my land line when I notice my cell's little indicator light is blinking.

Curiosity temporarily cancels out all other thoughts, and I reach for my phone, flip it open. I've got a missed message: Rudy. I smile a little.

_Gotta rain check tonite. Wanna grab lunch?_

I look down at the little screen, holding back the urge to ask why— it’s not like he’s not allowed a night off. After several seconds of thought, I just type, _OK, sure._

The reply is an almost immediate, _Time?_

I glance impulsively at the clock. I don't know. _1:30?_ I ask.

 _I'll pick you up,_ he replies.

I send him some dumb emoticon, my mood suddenly buoyed by the prospect of company and an off campus lunch ( _if it even ends up involving real food..._ ). Setting my cell back down, I look at the sheet with Donald Martinez's information, then reach anew for my corded phone.

Who knows what else Doakes might be able to get out of Flop Sweat in there, but clearly our sales rep had more going on for him than his family in the burbs and his boring-ass job.

And I'm kind of curious to find out what.

 


	53. Secrets

_ _

_Secrets  
_ _Setting: “Shrink Wrap”_

* * *

The drive-thru window at Checkers is completely impacted as we reach it, but I pull in behind the nearest bumper anyway, too hungry to care. Breakfast was two cups of coffee at home and another three at the court house. It's now 2:30, and at this point I could eat the car tire.

I tap my fingers against the wheel, craving a cigarette. The pack is in my purse, which is sitting on the floor in the back. I'm debating asking Batista if he'd care if I reached for it when a car's length opens up ahead of us. I drop the idea as I shift forward.

I continue tapping, thinking about the long session we just had with Pascal's attorney. He's finally seen the light, decided to plea out, which is just as well, since I hadn't really been looking forward to court— slam dunk or not.

Meanwhile, there's our dead sales rep. Donald Martinez agreed to come in this morning, met with Doakes while Batista and I and the prosecuting attorney were trapped in between white, nondescript walls in plea negotiation hell. When I called for an update, my partner told me with his usual brusqueness that Wagner had a gambling problem and he was going to go check into it. If the revelation holds, we're calling in the wife again.

He still likes her for this, but I can't stop thinking about her face that night we told her her husband was dead. That wasn't the look of a guilty woman, and I feel it in my gut that Doakes is wasting his energy on her.

Then again, what the fuck do I know, right?

“Morgan.” Batista's voice catches my attention. I look over at him, and he clears his throat, glancing at my fingers.

“Oh, sorry,” I murmur, dropping my hands off the wheel.

Drawn temporarily from my thoughts, I watch Batista as he turns to look out the window again, lightly working his jaw. He's been in a mood since we left the precinct this morning, his usual smiling self replaced by some stone-faced, cheerless lookalike. At first I thought it was just the court appointment in the middle of his other investigations, but more and more I'm starting to doubt it. Something else is bothering him, and I can't help my mild curiosity.

I glance left as brake lights glow red in front of me, shift out of park to roll the handful of feet forward. Once we've stopped, I look at Batista again, decide to just open my mouth. “Everything alright?” I ask.

He glances at me, meets my gaze, pinches his jaw. “Yeah.”

Sensing a warning flag, I back off, shift my arm on the wheel. “Good.”

He studies something on the dash for a few, long moments. Through the window, pedestrians in tank tops and shorts drift by, palm trees blow gently in the breeze against a blue, blue sky. We've got a week or so of decent weather ahead of us, at least according to the guy on the TV this morning.

“Actually, no,” Batista corrects himself to my slight surprise, and I look over at him again.

I arch my brows, unsure if I should prompt.

He swallows. “Nina and I...” He stops. “She wants a divorce. Called me last night to talk about it.”

My brows sink, and a “What?” slips out. “But,” I say, “I thought—”

“I've been lying to you guys, for awhile now,” he cuts me off, ducking his head. “I didn't want to admit that things had gotten so bad, and I figured...” He trails off. “Well, I honestly never figured it would ever come to this, and once it went away, nobody needed to know, you know, coz it wasn't anybody's business. But now...” He looks at me again. “I don't know what to do. I'm not ready to give up on our marriage.”

I stare at him, totally amazed by his admission. Batista's been going on about his marriage for as long as I've known him. I can remember him talking about Nina and his daughter for years, back long before I was in Homicide, before I was even in Vice, when I'd wander into the pen to find my brother for one reason or another. But they're divorcing.

“What happened?” I ask.

“This is all my fault,” he says. “Three months ago, I made a mistake.” He looks at me meaningfully.

It takes a second.

_Oh._

“A terrible, stupid mistake,” he continues miserably, “and I felt like a real asshole for it. No,” he stops himself, “I _was_ an asshole for what I did, but I felt so bad about it I told her when I came home, straight away. I figured, you know, my father, he raised me to tell the truth, to be an honest, straight-up guy. What I did he never would've done, and it was unforgivable, but I didn't try to hide it.” He takes a breath, and at this precise moment I notice that more space has opened up between us and the ever-diminishing line for our lunch.

I pull forward gently, but he doesn't resume talking until I park again, and he recaptures my eyes with a begging sort of look.

“She kicked me out,” he says. “Said she needed time. First it was a few days, then weeks, and suddenly it was three months and our anniversary came and went. And you know, fine, I appreciate that. I messed up. I had to give her her space. But then to have her call out of the blue like that...” Again, he trails off, but this time there's a finality to it.

“I'm sorry,” is the only thing I can think to say.

“Ten years,” he says. “Ten years for one stupid, fucking mistake.”

I sit here uncomfortably, thinking that that's about nine years longer than most of my past relationships; thinking of Sean ( _that lying sack of shit_ ), and the Sean before that; thinking of Rudy, my still secret... whatever he is (guy I'm seeing? boyfriend?). I'm the last person I'd turn to for relationship advice.

Seriously. I’d almost sooner go to Shanda the street walker.

“I'm not giving up on us yet though,” Batista continues, oblivious to my thoughts. “I told her I need time to think about this. I'm thinking we could see a counselor. Maybe if we talked to someone, you know... I don't know.” He plays with his air conditioning vent, drops his hand and looks at me again. “I'd appreciate you not telling anyone at the station. No one else knows about Nina and I, the separation and all that. Besides your brother, anyway.”

I look at him in amazement. Dexter? How did he get into the chosen circle, the guy who never asks questions? “Yeah, no,” I say, instead of that. “Of course I won't tell anybody.”

“I appreciate that. I mean, who knows, maybe she'll agree to see the counselor, and once we finally spend some time together again she'll realize that this marriage is worth holding onto. I have faith, you know?”

I nod, not sure that three months of separation and talk of divorce bodes as well as Batista seems to hope it does. “She'll come around,” I say, trying to be reassuring.

“I really think she will,” he says, and he almost sounds like he believes it. “Thanks for listening to me, Morgan.”

I almost want to correct him to 'Deb,' but he's a colleague and a superior, and I want to keep a distance between us. Maybe that's the other reason I'm still keeping Rudy to myself, I don't know.

Before either of us can speak again, the line moves along, and we finally hit the intercom. Batista asks for a double with bacon, cheese, lots of pickles, fries, and a Mr. Pibb; I opt for a cheeseburger, fries, and the largest possible size of Diet Coke. We don't say anything more to each other until we get to the counter window, where Batista starts digging through his pockets for change, and I offer to just cover his 47 cents.

Six minutes later we're cruising down the road with windows down, the moist, coolish air rolling through the car as I alternate between munching fries and chomping into my burger. Batista seems to have retracted back into his thoughts, and I can't really blame him. I remember all those nights he claimed to have been going home to his wife, but they've been separated since before I even landed the transfer out of Vice. Maybe this is why he's always going out with Masuka. (because I was starting to wonder...)

Clearly I'm not the only one at the station keeping secrets. I still don't know what the fuck was going on with Doakes and that Guerrero bust, where that mysterious line of stitches came from.

Wonder who else is keeping secrets. Wonder what or if Dexter's keeping anything else to himself, besides, apparently, Batista's marital issues. Wonder if he'd tell me if I asked.

Yeah, probably not.

I stop thinking about much of anything but my lunch as I drive back in the direction of the station and the bay. Batista eats his greasy-ass burger with relish in the other seat, his elbow hanging out the window, the brim of his hat flapping around with the breeze. At least he's not still working his jaw.

By the time we've reached the station again, my burger's long since dead and there's only a handful of fries left in the plastic basket. I grab that with my drink and the wrappers and my purse, get out with Batista.

“I'll see you inside,” I say, and he nods, gives me a little smile, then trudges to the building, tossing his own trash as he goes.

I settle against the trunk, slowly working my way through the last of my now cold fries between long sips of soda. Just as I'm finishing off the fries, I spot a familiar car pull into the lot and park a few yards from where I'm leaning.

I push off my car, walk over to Dexter's as he gets out. He's wearing that dark blue, striped shirt that always reminds me vaguely of tweed.

“You're just getting back?” I ask, sipping my drink.

He glances at me and gives me a weird look, like he’s surprised to see me here. “Yeah,” he says. “That lunch thing I had ran late.”

“What lunch thing?” I ask, not remembering him mentioning anything.

“Oh, nothing important.” He waves it off, slams his door. Locks the car.

Hm, speaking of hiding things...

I lean in, grin at him evilly. “You go and toss Rita a quickie on her lunch break?” I ask quietly.

He grimaces, then moves past me. I follow him, binning my trash as we head inside. “Fine, don't tell me,” I say when my protracted silence doesn't goad him into talking.

“Okay,” he says. Annoyingly.

We move through the lobby, reach the elevator. He taps the button, oblivious as usual to my reaction. Sighing slightly, I reach into my purse for my glasses case, take off my aviators and slip them inside, drop it back into my purse.

“How was court?” he asks after the doors open and we step inside.

“Long,” I exhale. “How was Rita?”

“I wasn't—” he collects himself mid-sentence, “with Rita. We haven't even...”

“Liar,” I cut him off. I want to ask him about this whole Batista thing, but before I can quite formulate the question, the doors open.

“See you, sis,” he says, heading off in the direction of the bathroom.

“See you, brother,” I mutter, watching him flee. Bet he doesn’t even have to go.

With a sigh and a vague feeling of disappointment about the lack of gossip, I go back to my desk. Before I've even set down my purse, I look around to see Doakes getting up and moving toward me.

“Tox screen came back on Vanessa Gayle,” he says without preamble, despite the fact that this is the first time we've seen each other face-to-face today.

“Yeah?” I say, putting down my purse.

“Came back positive for sedatives.” He indicates some new piece of paper that's appeared on my desk since yesterday. “So far, looks like you were right. Unless the coroner wants to make any revisions, we're closing this is as a suicide.”

I feel a puff of triumph rise up my chest as I nod. “Great,” I say, then automatically revise, “For us.”

“Mm,” he grunts. “Julia Wagner's coming in in an hour. You need to get up to speed before she does.”

I nod, follow him to his desk. I notice Batista's in with LaGuerta as I take a seat next to my partner. I remember suddenly that she was going to see Perry today. I wonder if she found anything out...

I refocus on Doakes. “You still liking her for this?” I ask. “The wife, I mean.”

“It's always the spouse, Morgan,” he says.

I bite back the urge to mention Vanessa Gayle, whose late husband seemed like a way better suspect than the newly-minted mother who drives a station wagon.

“So what've you got?” I say instead.

He grabs his notepad and a folder, hands me the latter. “Turns out our vic was into poker, was running games out of a few of the houses his bank foreclosed on.”

“Maybe he was extorting someone?” I offer helpfully.

He shoots me his stink eye, and I close my mouth, purse my lips. “Go on,” I say.

After a slight pause, he does.

 


	54. Instinct

_ _

_Instinct  
_ _Setting: “Shrink Wrap”_

* * *

Condensed air tumbles inside the wall somewhere overhead and to the right. One of the lights continues flickering irritatingly with a high, steady whine, both just barely perceptible enough that it's driving me crazy.

And the silence stretches on, long and thin. Julia Wagner's gaze is focused on the table. Unlike yesterday, she sits here alone, her daughter off with her sister or something. She seems like a harder woman than the one who came in yesterday. Doakes is convinced she's dropped the act since we went to pick her up.

I'm not so sure. I _talked_ to her, that night her husband died. I answered the phone. I believed her. Could she really have hidden herself so well? Did she play me? Could I really have gotten that shitty of a read on her? Or should I continue to trust my instincts?

Do I even have any measurable instincts?

“How much longer am I going to have to sit here?” she asks eventually, looking up at me with miserable eyes.

“I don't know,” I say honestly. Doakes separated from me as we were taking her in, told me he had to take care of something and he'd meet us in the interview room soon. Soon was... awhile ago. I'm resisting looking at my watch, but it feels like it's been at least forty minutes. I can only guess that I'm once again playing good cop, and I'm sitting here stewing with Julia to create some sort of connection between us. Though if we are playing a game, I wish Doakes had given me the heads up.

Especially because I just don't want to believe she could be guilty of this...

“I don't understand,” she says, now that the silence is broken. “Have you found something new? About Kent?”

We have, but I can't tell her that. I have no idea if she's figured out that she's become our prime suspect, and I can't exactly say that Doakes is probably intending to come in here and try to break her like a pane of glass. “I'm sorry, but I really can't say anything until Sergeant Doakes comes back,” is all I've got for her.

She looks at me helplessly, then sighs, goes back to looking at the table, her gaze sliding over the closed manila folder on the desk as it goes. I can feel her curiosity. She's wondering what's inside, what we've got on her.

She must know.

( _but her face that night, those tears_ )

( _she's got a daughter for god's sake_ )

The air cuts off abruptly, and the quiet feels vacuous. I listen to that one malfunctioning light, annoyed with it despite myself.

_Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz_

The door opens, breaking the spell. “Sorry for the wait, Mrs. Wagner,” Doakes says as he enters. I glance back at him as he slides out the chair beside me and takes a seat. He places a second folder next to mine.

“It's okay,” she says, looking from the folder to him. “Is there something new?”

I study her, watch her curl her hands on the table. Is she nervous?

“Just for your information, we are taping this conversation,” he says, ignoring her question. “Do you consent to us taking this recording?”

Julia glances up at the camera in the corner of the wall, then refocuses on Doakes. “It’s okay,” she says.

“I’ll need a yes or no, ma’am.”

She pauses, then nods. “Yes.”

“Thank you.” He nods too. “Mrs. Wagner, we want to know if you're interested in revising any of the statements you made yesterday.”

Her hands slide off the table. “No, I'm not interested,” she says. “What's this about?”

Doakes slides over and opens up my folder, then pulls out the bank statement from Kent Wagner's secret account. “You stated yesterday that you didn't know about this account,” he says, pushing the paper toward her.

She looks down at the sheet, exhales. I stare at her. We know she knew, but that doesn't prove she killed him.

She says nothing, purses her lips and leans back.

Doakes looks at me, nods at the folder. My turn.

I open it up, pull out the stills from the security feed we turned up yesterday, line them up in front of her. “These are pictures of you from three weeks ago,” I say, pointing at her figure in each shot. “They were taken at a Chase on Southwest 22nd Street, where you were attempting to draw money from this account.” I tap the bank statement lightly with my finger.

She stares at the pictures.

“We'll ask you again,” Doakes says. “Did you know about the account?”

She stays silent, her gaze stuck to the page.

I spent the day yesterday investigating anybody beside her after she left, went out to the bank to re-interview a few of the victim's coworkers and friends, all the while Doakes kept right on hunting her. Even after I came back and he showed me those pictures, I was making excuses for her. This all felt too simple, too obvious an answer on paper, and all of my instincts said to look somewhere else. I mean, what kind of woman, what kind of wife, could smash a car into her husband and spread his body across a city block?

But as I'm sitting here I can feel the guilt rolling off her. She knew, and she walked right into our net.

“Am I under arrest?” she asks finally, looking at Doakes.

“No,” he says.

“I think it's time I hire an attorney. I know how these things go.”

Doakes just looks at her, shifting forward like a dog on a scent. Crap.

“What things?” I ask.

Her eyes flick to mine. “These kinds of investigations. You cops just take one look and assume it must've been the spouse.”

She's not wrong. “We're just talking,” I say. “We just need you to explain this, these pictures.” I tap the papers on the table.

“I think I'd really better talk to my attorney,” she says, then looks at Doakes again. “Can I go?”

“You're free to leave,” he replies. She gets up immediately, swings her purse over her shoulder. “But you should know,” he says, stopping her before she's made a step. “We've issued a search warrant for your home.”

Her lips form a hard, pale line. “You have no right.”

He reaches inside his own folder, pulls out the judge's slip. “Feel free to look it over.”

She doesn't move for it, just looks at him. She looks a shade or two lighter, and suddenly I notice her hand quivering where it's curled around the purse strap. She's afraid.

“I have nothing to hide,” she says, her voice not quite as steady as it had been a minute ago. “Now, if you'll excuse me…” She goes for the door. We rise to follow her, and she glances back at us nervously before opening it and heading out.

Down the hall we go. She walks quickly, her heels clicking smartly off the tile floors. As we trail her, I think of the other things we have in those folders that we never got to talk about, the interview with the nanny. Her leaving like this is suspicious as hell. And if she already has a lawyer on retainer, I can feel my faith in her crumbling.

“Officer,” Doakes says to some random uniform when we reach the elevator. Esperanza, I think? “Please escort Mrs. Wagner down to her car.”

He nods, and she looks at him stiffly before shoving open the door to the stairwell and heading down. Esperanza follows, her silent shadow.

“Still think she's innocent?” Doakes asks when the door shuts.

I glance at him, feeling defeated but not wanting to admit it. “When're we executing the search warrant?” I ask in lieu of a reply.

“Twenty minutes,” he says. “Might want to grab some lunch. It's almost two.”

I'm not hungry, but I nod, head to my desk. When I open the drawer for my purse, I see my phone flash at me from just on top of it, so I pull it out, wondering what it wants.

Missed texts.

Rudy...

I feel something weird and warm bloom up my chest, click through to the inbox.

_Interested in lunch?_

_Interested in not having lunch?_

_Call me_

_I'll come pick you up_

_Are you there?_

Shit, that last one was fifteen minutes ago. I haven't even looked at my phone since we went to pick up Julia Wagner. After last night... I was almost glad when he said he had to go after we finished. I can't believe I cried. I can't believe how complicated things are already starting to feel, but in a good way.

( _of course, I've felt like this before..._ )

 _I'm here,_ I type, ignoring that thought. I wonder if I should add anything else, but don’t. Hit send.

The answer is practically immediate, _Finally. I'm in the parking lot._

Shit.

I glance from my phone over to Doakes, who's at his desk. I notice LaGuerta's gone— back to see Perry again. Once again I can't help but wonder, with a touch of paranoia, why she's been going to the prison so often this week. Did my instincts fuck me with the Ice Truck investigation as hard as they fucked me with Valerie Castillo and, now, with Julia Wagner?

I want that easy comfort that Rudy can give me, that crash of mad, hot consumption, of thoughtlessness, but I don't have time. Yet, he's just right there outside, waiting.

“I'm getting a coffee,” I say to Doakes, then slip my phone into my pocket. He looks up at me and nods, then goes back to his paperwork.

Quickly, I make my way out of Homicide, taking the stairs at a half-skip. I kind of wish he'd waited for a text back before just showing up, but at the same time it's almost sweet. And I want to see him.

I throw open the door, make my way through reception. When I step out into the parking lot I see him almost immediately, sitting on the back of his car staring attentively at the entrance. I grin when I see him, and he does too when he notices me. Something goes soft inside me.

“Hey,” he says when I approach, sliding off the trunk. My response is swallowed by his mouth, and the action of it temporarily distracts me from breathing.

He tastes kind of strange, almost like cough syrup. I don’t like it.

And then he pulls away. “So I found this great place for lunch right around the corner,” he says.

“Stop,” I say, hating myself for it. “Fuck, I'm sorry, we're getting ready to make an arrest. I've gotta go.”

He looks down at me, shifts some of my hair behind an ear. A grin pulls at his lips. “How long do we have?”

“None. I'm sorry, I really have to—”

“Come on.” He pulls me into him, and his hand slips down my waist. Cups me lightly with his fingers. I can't... we're in public, right in front of the goddamn station ( _but I want_...). Heat fires from his fingers down and up my skin, and my breath hitches. Chest compresses.

Another kiss, this time from me. And I can taste that weird mintiness on his tongue, like menthol or something, and it's weird and somewhat unpleasant, but so is what we're doing. ( _People could see..._ )

I pull away, with difficulty. “I'm sorry,” I say again, trying to breathe, trying to collect my thoughts off the floor. “Can we pick this up tonight?”

Fuck but he’s still holding me. Fingers moving lightly back and forth. “I don't know,” he says. “I might have to work.”

That answer is frustrating, and I'm already frustrated. “Cancel,” I exhale.

“Take a ride with me,” he counters, his eyes shining with lust.

( _You fucker_ ) “I really—” ( _want_ ) “Fuck, I can't.”

He sighs, and we're so close I can feel the action of his ribs. “Okay,” he says.

I push away from him, back off a step. His fingertips slide off. I can feel the heat thundering down my body, an instinctive force nagging at me to shove him against the trunk and take back the connection. ( _I want to f—_ )

“Tonight?” I ask, trying to put a lid on it.

“I hope so,” he murmurs. One last kiss, then he finally gets away from me, heads toward the car door. I swallow, still tasting him on my mouth, still feeling the pressure of his fingers, still… pulsing. I move away from his car as he turns over the engine. As he backs out I half want to open the door and tell him to just find somewhere secluded for a few minutes, but I keep myself firmly planted to the blacktop.

We share a wave before he pulls the rest of the way away, drives out of the parking lot, leaving me and a whole mess of feelings behind.

I don't know how long I've been standing here when I notice someone leaving the station, and I turn to see Dexter rapidly shuffling away from me, toward his car.

“Dex,” I call.

He looks over at me, appearing guilty as shit. “Deb,” he says, sounding as if he was hoping I wouldn't notice him. “Hey.”

I feel my eyebrows drop, wondering what he's doing. “Late lunch?” I ask, walking toward him as he reaches his car.

“Uh, yeah,” he says.

I study him. My brother's been sneaking off a lot lately, and I can only imagine one destination. “Going to see Rita again?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “She had to cancel our lunch. I've got a crime scene.”

“Where's your bag?” I ask, looking at his empty shoulder.

“In the car,” he replies quickly. Too quickly. “I've gotta go, Deb.”

“Yeah, okay,” I mutter, still looking at him suspiciously. Crime scene my ass. I bet Rita's waiting for him in an empty, recently air-freshened room at her hotel.

He shoots me a small smile, then moves around me to get to the driver side. Twenty seconds later I'm watching his bumper disappear out onto the road too. The lying, cheeky little shit...

( _That should be me sneaking out of here to fuck around during lunch..._ )

Feeling jealous and still a little amped up, I turn and head for the roach coach. I need caffeine. Lots and lots of it.

 


	55. All That It Seems

_ _

_All That It Seems  
_ _Setting: “Shrink Wrap”_

* * *

And, suddenly, it's after six.

I lean back from my report on Julia Wagner, shift some hair out of my face. Everyone without a life is still here— Doakes, Batista (that shit about his wife still surprises me...), LaGuerta, Soderquist. Everyone else has started trickling out, including Masuka, and I don't even want to know where that bald little dweeb is planning to spend his Friday night. Dexter left twenty minutes ago, characteristically sharing nothing about his weekend plans.

As for me, I can't help but feel a little disappointed that Rudy couldn't come over tonight, and maybe that's why I'm not in any hurry to leave. The second night in a row I've gotta go home to a cold bed, and even if it's lame to admit it, I can already feel his absence.

Though I've been flashing on this morning more times than I'd care to admit today. By the time he finally got all that crap off my legs I felt like I was going to explode from want, but fuck it was worth the wait...

Exhaling, I glance back down at my desk. I can think about that later.

Vanessa Gayle's case was closed officially today. Her body was cremated yesterday. Suicide's a shitty end result, but after talking with Meridian I can't say I'm surprised, and, at the least, she's another name off our board. I've only been here a couple months and already I feel like we're hearing about our stats at least three times a day before lunch.

At least we're moving toward closure on another case, my case— Julia Wagner. She's sitting in holding right now. Doakes is hoping that a night of stewing without her daughter will break her, and at this point I couldn't feel an ounce of sympathy for her. It turns out she did have an SUV, or her father did anyway, before he died. The title was transferred to his wife, Julia's mother, who's currently living in a home up in Vero Beach. I guess the bitch never thought we'd search that far north, or maybe it just didn't occur to her that we could have the vehicle towed to Miami, but the forensic work up on the car this morning pretty much sealed her fate. Under the black light, the thing lit up like a motel bed sheet.

I just don't understand _why_ she did it, why of all the ways to kill her husband she'd do it with a car, why she'd kill him at all with their new daughter and their nice home in the Gables. Their life clearly was not all what it seemed from the pictures in Kent's wallet and on the living room walls.

I glance right, at Batista. God knows he kept it together for months without a precinct full of detectives figuring it out.

Still, Julia's keeping her mouth closed, even as the evidence keeps piling up. If she's smart she'll plead out, maybe'll live to see her daughter graduate from college, but so far she's been opting for silence. Maybe she shut down, is having trouble living with what she's done. Crime of passion, sure, I could almost understand something snapping in the heat of the moment, making a decision to save yourself or someone else, just _reacting_ like an animal; but Julia got that car all the way down to Miami, stalked her husband, ran him down, called his cell phone barely a few hours after his death, brought the murder weapon back to her mother's parking space the next day. That's a special kind of psychosis, or a special kind of rage.

I just want to know why she did it.

An impulse seizes me, and I push out of my chair, walk over to Doakes. He's typing something up on his computer, fingers stabbing the keys like each one's done something to personally offend him. Everything about him is intense, but I can't help but appreciate that we seem to share a similar drive, and that he really doesn't seem to give a fuck about how I talk to him. It’s a relief that I don’t feel like I have to watch myself around him.

“I want to try talking to Julia Wagner again,” I say before he can ask what I want.

He looks up at me. “No plans with your new boyfriend?” he rumbles.

“I think I can get her to talk to me,” I say, ignoring that.

He studies me without a trace of confidence. “Do you?”

And despite myself, I falter slightly. “Honestly, I don't know,” I revise, “but what's the harm in trying?”

He shrugs. “Knock yourself out, Morgan.”

I almost want to say 'Really?' but catch myself, instead just mutter a “Great” before turning away. I hear him go back to his typing as I stop by my desk to grab everything we've got on the case, and then I head to the elevator, hit the button.

Holding is on ground level, behind a barred barrier. Other than to escort Pascal up and down the station, I haven’t been down here since I left Vice, though even then I wasn’t here much. Didn’t exactly get to do a ton of perp walks in the barbie suit. There's nothing particularly interesting about it, just a couple rooms filled with a lot of cells, but it’s a little weird to be down here now that I’m with Homicide. Makes me think of my years on patrol. Drunks and crazies and DUIs. People pissing on restaurant windows at 4 in the afternoon. Sometimes I couldn’t help projecting myself into the future, and now here I am. In that future. Plain clothes and everything.

More or less.

The doors open and I step inside.

I wonder what Julia is thinking about as she stews in her little cell, on that thin as fuck mattress. Even if she never loved her husband, even if she hated him, she shared a bed with him, a child, a _life_. They were married for almost eight years. How could she have decided to do what she did? Was that violence always there, simmering just below the surface? Did Kent ever suspect what was really there under that Southern, family-values exterior? Or did he die thinking that she loved him?

I exit the elevator, walk to holding, and smile politely at Miller, the uniform currently guarding the door.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I reply.

For half a minute we exchange small talk, and then he opens the door.

As I walk in I notice that Julia Wagner's one of only a couple chicks in here, and she’s the only one awake. She's stretched out on her shitty cot, staring up at nothing, and I see her look over at me for a second as I walk over to her cell.

“Mrs. Wagner,” I open, not really sure what my plan is now that I'm standing here.

“What time is it?” she asks the ceiling.

I glance at my watch. “Six thirty.”

“AM?”

My eyebrows drop a little. “PM.”

She kind of grunts something that might be an 'Alright,' keeps staring upward.

Is this regret... or boredom? She has to know that we have her, and she's lying there like it's just a bed at a crappy motel. Her stoicism pisses me off. Everything about her in general just sort of pisses me off right now.

“You mind if I ask you something?” I ask.

She says nothing, taps her fingers on her chest.

I shift a little closer to her cage. “We have enough to bury you,” I say. “Doesn't really matter how much of your dead husband's insurance money you spend on a lawyer, either way you're gonna end up rotting in prison by Sunday.”

She doesn't even look at me, sighs as if I'm annoying her.

“You'll be lucky if you ever get to know your daughter as she grows up,” I continue. “Your sister's going to have to be the one who's there for her, through all those fucking...” I grope, “little moments in her life, and that’s assuming she even agrees to take her on at all. She could grow up in the foster system, never having a mother, or a father. And you took that from her.”

She stiffens, shifts slightly to look in my direction. “Emily will be fine,” she says, more to herself than to me. “She has plenty of family.”

“Will she be?” I take another step, look down at her through the bars. “You think, what, Kent's parents would take her if your sister didn't? What kind of life would she have with them if they did, if every time they saw her they just saw the bitch who murdered their only son?”

She sets her jaw.

“Emily's gonna grow up without a mother or a father. Do you think she'll even remember you? What do you think people will tell her when she asks where her parents are, what happened to them?” I think vaguely of some those conversations with Dad about Dexter. “Will they tell her you both died in some kind of accident to save her from the truth?”

She rolls over and finally looks at me, her face all hard lines. “Leave me alone,” she hisses.

I glare at her and open my folder, pull out a glossy, full-color photo of the crime scene, which I slap against the bars. She immediately looks away, as if it burned her. “You did this to the man you married, shared a fucking life and a daughter with. This is what you did to your family.” I pause, stare at her angrily. “You can't even fucking look at it, can you? At what you did to him?”

Silence. No tears, no denial, no admission, no nothing. Does she really feel nothing, or is she just numb to it all?

“Tell me why,” I say.

She just sits there, elbows on her knees, staring off into space.

I want to unlock the door and strangle her. “What made you do this?”

Nothing.

I wrap my fingers around one of the bars. “Do you even fucking know?”

She glances over at me, her eyes skirting the picture. “I'm done talking.”

“I'm not,” I say, accidentally clanging the metal with my boot as I shift. “What the hell did he do to you?”

She rolls onto her back again, curls her fingers on her stomach.

For a long time I just stand here, rage turning the temperature in the room way way up. I just want an answer, some little nugget of sense to the bloody mess her husband left all over that sidewalk.

But Julia Wagner gives me nothing, just closes her eyes.

Slamming my molars together so hard it hurts, I shove the picture back into the folder, then turn and walk out. Rage pounds in my ears as I leave holding, passing Miller without a word, and suddenly I find myself in the parking lot. It's only as I stop in my usual spot that I remember that I don't have my purse or any cigarettes.

Fuck.

Or even my keys to leave.

Fuck.

Exhaling, I lean against the wall, stare at the line of patrol units without really seeing them, craving a cigarette. Going in there accomplished nothing. Even if I was the one outside the cage, she's the one with all the power. Doakes would never have lost his temper like that, and Dad wouldn't have either. For as much as he was always gone, always searching for some space from the station and from life, I've heard enough stories about Dad to know that he would never lose his cool in the box.

I can feel the weight of his disappointment all over me. Dad's ghost haunts this whole damn building.

I wish, suddenly and intensely, that I didn't have to be alone tonight. I wish, maybe unfairly, that Rudy had canceled whatever he's doing tonight for us. I'd be worried that I fucked everything up the other night when I started crying like a pathetic dipshit if it wasn't for this morning, but there's still that part of me that worries that even despite what he said about not going anywhere, I'm still gonna end up waking up one day to find that he's lost interest in me.

But he looked so serious this morning... Could I trust him to stay?

I don't know.

All I do know is that I want a fucking cigarette.

I push off the wall, head back into the station. I don't want to face Doakes. I just want to grab a smoke and go home, put the day to rest. Tomorrow we interrogate Julia Wagner again, and maybe my partner will be able to break her.

Whatever. For right now it's done, and I'm going home.

 


	56. Plea Bargain

_ _

_Plea Bargain  
_ _Setting: “Shrink Wrap”_

* * *

_I want to confess._

I'm sitting, arms wrapped around my waist, staring across the table at Julia Wagner and her clean-cut attorney, who're over there calmly signing papers. I don't really know what I expected when I first walked into the box, maybe another two hours of silent glowering and deflections, but Julia opened her mouth before we'd even taken our seats.

As I watch her I can't help but wonder if it was the pressure of Doakes' hospitality or the ever-looming threat of the death penalty that broke her— or if it wasn't our conversation last night. I know I didn't leave here feeling like I got through to her, but maybe she heard me more than I realized.

That's what Doakes seems to think anyway. When we stepped out to call the prosecutor, he asked me what I said to her to make her suddenly want to talk, and so far I want to take the credit. Maybe for all her stoicism, she's finally come to grieve the future she threw away.

Julia inhales and picks up her stack of documents, taps it against the table until every page is aligned, carefully sets it next to her lawyer. She then stares at some point in space just above the table, not quite in my direction.

Doakes leans forward. “Did you kill your husband, Kent Wagner?”

Julia looks up at him, folds her hands on the table. “I did.”

I feel my breath catch in my throat. I can't believe she just admitted it.

“Tell us how.”

Her gaze flicks to me, then slides down, back to that point in space. “I...” She trails off, looks back up at me, catches my eye. For the first time I really see emotion there: desperation. “I drove to Kent's work, waited for him to come out.”

I let my arms drop from my waist and into my lap as I shift forward, staring at her. “Did you go there that night to kill him?” I ask.

She pauses. “I did.”

My response is automatic, the same question I've had for days, “Why?”

She looks away, breaking that connection between us. “I've known Kent a long time,” she says. “We dated in high school, reconnected after college. Seemed like fate...” She trails off again. Still no tears, no nothing. The wall came down, but there's nothing behind it. “I thought I loved him. I think I did.” And back to me again, like Doakes doesn't even exist. Maybe I really did get to her last night.

“He wanted to start a family. Every week he was talking about white picket fences, family vacations up at Disneyworld, us together on rocking chairs on some porch. None of that really appealed to me, but sometimes it did.” She stops.

I lean forward, set my arms on the table. “Not everyone's really cut out for all that Dick Van Dyke shit,” I say. It's only as the words leave my mouth that I remember that this is being recorded as an official statement.

To her credit, Julia Wagner doesn't even blink, but I can feel Doakes shift beside me. “But it's what he wanted, and my career wasn't going anywhere anyway,” she says. “We tried for years to get pregnant, had a couple miscarriages. I don't know what I felt. Kent was devastated.” She starts tapping her fingers. “And then it finally took, and I still didn't know what I felt.”

I study her as she falls silent again. I want to believe her, but then again I believed her before, when she was asking me who could have done what she did. Did she coach this with her lawyer this morning? Are they trying to build a case for a lesser sentence?

Or is that sadness real?

“I love my daughter,” she says eventually. “More than anything. But it was... well, it was hard. After she was born everything got hard, I was fighting with him all the time. I wasn't ready. Maybe I never would've been ready.” Another stop.

I have no idea what to say, or if I should say anything. This is way beyond outside my wheelhouse, and I'm not even sure if I should try to sympathize with her.

I resist the urge to look at Doakes for direction.

She starts up again without me. “We never talked about separating,” she says, “but maybe we should have. And then I found the records from Kent's...” she pauses, “secret account, found out he was gambling again. Maybe he never stopped gambling, I don't know. I don't know at what point I checked out of our marriage.” She looks at me. “You're not married, are you, Officer?”

Before I can open my mouth, Doakes cuts over me. “This isn't a conversation, Mrs. Wagner,” he says with all his usual warmth. “It's a confession.”

I see something like frustration flicker across her face as she glances at Doakes, and then she looks back at me, clears her throat. “Right. I'm sorry.” She folds her hands, unfolds them. “At first he denied having the account, then he got angry about it, asked why I was going through his records. He said he was trying to build something for our savings, but then why would he have kept it a secret?” She's asking me this, and I wouldn't have an answer even if I could reply. “He was going to leave. I think he thought it wasn't ever going to get better between us. He was starting to see that that perfect future he kept talking about wasn't ever going to exist. And even if he stayed, we both knew where his gambling would get us eventually.”

She cups her nose between her hands, brows twitching. Finally, something. “I don't know why I did it,” she says after a beat. “I loved him.”

( _You came with a ski mask and your mother's car. You ran him down like a..._ )

“It was... something inside me. Since the pregnancy everything's just been so hard. Kent said it was postpartum depression, wanted me to see a therapist, but I never...” Again she cuts herself off, closes her eyes.

Still no tears. ( _But I believe her_ )

I suddenly think of Vanessa Gayle, the woman who ate a gun in her own bathtub. She'd been seeing a therapist for years but it hardly seemed to solve anything for her.

I think of that annoying fucking psych eval after that guy attacked me in the alley. Other shit.

Refocus.

“I don't know why I...” Julia starts again, her face still half-buried in her hands, stops. “This isn't who I am.”

And then another stop, but this one feels more permanent. For a long moment, we all just sit here watching her, waiting for her to continue, but she looks lost in whatever blackness is roiling around her heart.

“Maybe we should take a break,” her lawyer says finally.

“Alright,” Doakes agrees, to my slight surprise. He looks at me. “Morgan.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. I glance at Julia Wagner as we both get up, but she hasn't shifted an inch, and then I follow Doakes out.

“You think she's telling the truth?” I ask him after the door shuts behind me.

“About all that postpartum bullshit?” he says. “Seems awfully fucking convenient if you ask me, especially if she never saw anyone about it.”

“Do we confront her about it?” I ask.

“Not today.” He's walking to the break room. “But the ADA's not exactly gonna take it without some evidence to back her story.” He sets his mug on the counter, grabs the coffee pot. “You want any?”

“I'm good,” I say.

“Good work getting her to open up,” he says as he pours. “Even if she might be full of shit, at least she's talking, and she trusts you. We can use that.”

His praise hits me with a shock of warmth, and I grin reflexively. “Fuckin A,” I mutter. On impulse I walk over to the other counter, unscrew the lid on the Twizzlers and grab a few sticks. “You really don't believe her?” I ask, gnawing on one of them.

“Everybody's full of shit, Morgan,” he says, stirring his coffee even though he didn't put anything in it. “And if she went to trial this could easily become a death penalty case. It's been years since Florida's executed a woman, but no one's stupid enough to gamble on being the next statistic.” He turns to look at me. “Do you believe her?”

I shrug, still gnawing on the licorice. “I don't know.”

“We might never know what really happened,” he says, drinks his coffee. “Just don't let yourself get invested.”

I nod, watch him drain his mug, then turn and wash it out.

He's thanking me for getting her to confess. Had I not gone in to talk to her on a random impulse last night, would we even be hearing her story today, or had she been planning to tell it all along? Is she telling the truth, or did she make it up after I left in an effort to avoid the possibility of the death penalty?

I don't want to throw in with Doakes' cynicism. I want to believe that there really is some sort of reason to be found here, because if not... how could she have run down her own husband, a man I can only assume she loved? If Doakes is right, then it must all be a façade, all of it, and I don't know how I could sit across from a psychopath and not even sense it.

I eat the rest of the licorice rapidly. I want to go back in there. I want to know which of us is right in this.

Doakes reaches up, grabs a few water bottles from inside one of the cabinets, then shuts the door. “Come on,” he says. “Time to finish so we can have time to actually enjoy our fucking Saturday.”

I nod, find myself stepping out of the break room before he does, leading the way back. When I open the door, Julia's hands are back on the table, no longer covering half her face. Her attorney with his stupid tie clip and pressed suit looks at me with a measure of cool professionalism that seems as practiced as it does superficial.

And Julia looks at me like I'm her ally.

I glance at Doakes before retaking my seat. Here we go again.

 


	57. Morning

_ _

_Morning  
_ _Setting: “Shrink Wrap”_

* * *

Rain.

The realization rises up from the general haze of groggy, half-realized thoughts.

It's raining again.

I pop open an eye, glance up automatically at the window even though I can't see anything through the curtains. I can hear rain and wind through the glass, the scraping of leaves against the side of the building, and it's dark in here like it's the middle of the night, even though it's...

I glance at the clock on the nightstand.

6:43.

Well, I guess I knew when I checked the weather last night that any chance of a morning run would be fucked.

Exhaling, I roll over, look at Rudy. I'm surprised he's not awake already. Like my brother, he never seems to keep human time, always up at weird hours and at the ass-crack of dawn. Last night he actually fell asleep with me, not after a few hours in front of the TV, which is a first.

I reach over and shift a few curls out of his face, listen to him breathe. I wonder what he's dreaming about, if he's dreaming. He says he doesn't have dreams, which is a little weird and I’m not sure if I believe him.

When he doesn't respond to my touch, I let my hand fall, exhale and shift on my pillow. A rainy Sunday morning. Screw it, I'm sleeping in.

I close my eyes, readjust the blanket over my shoulder.

And the phone rings.

“—the fuck?” I murmur groggily, sitting up. I can hear Rudy groan beside me.

“What's going on?” he asks into his pillow.

“I don't know...” I trail off, rolling to the edge the bed, mashing my hands into my eyes. ( _Where's the fucking phone..._ ) I spot the thing lying on the dresser, and I slide off, reach for it.

“What?” I answer.

“Morning, Deb.”

Dexter. I rub the bridge of my nose. “Do you know what time it is, Dex?”

“Um...” There's a crinkling sound. “Seven sixteen.”

I drop my hand, annoyed by his reply. “Do you know what day it is?”

Pause. “Sunday.”

“I'm going back to bed now,” I say.

“You didn't pick up last night,” he continues as if I didn't speak.

“Yeah, well, I was occupied.” I glance back at Rudy, who's now sitting up and watching me. “What's so urgent it couldn't wait?”

“LaGuerta came into my office last night when I came back from that stabbing up in Wynwood.”

“Do I want to know where this story is going?” I slide off the bed, reach for a shirt off the laundry basket of clean clothes.

“What?” He apparently didn't catch my drift. Which, whatever, it was lame anyway.

I slip into the shirt. “Nothing. Continue.” I find some undies in a drawer.

“Neil Perry recanted.”

I stop halfway into them, reach up and adjust the phone out of the crook of my neck. “What?”

“He recanted,” he repeats. “He's not the Ice Truck Killer, Deb. Our guy is still out there.”

For a moment the whole world seems to freeze up. ( _Shit_ ) I lean stupidly against the bed, underwear caught around my legs, not sure what to think. We caught that shitstain _in the act._ He had all those fucking pictures, and his mother under the patio...

Compression on the bed breaks the stillness just as I hear Dexter through the phone. “Deb?” he says. I glance back at Rudy, who's now beside me.

“How?” is what I come up with, finally pulling the underwear the rest of the way up and getting off the bed. I head for the door.

“LaGuerta had IT search our system. Perry hacked in, must've accessed all our records for the Ice Truck Killer, even planted a couple moving violations.”

So he left a trail of breadcrumbs, and I'm the idiot who followed them. “Fuck,” I say, dropping into a chair in my living room. “Fucking fuck, Dexter.” And then, for some reason, a flash of anger. “So is this you just calling to gloat?”

“No,” he says. “I figured you'd want to know.”

I don't know what to say. My spearheading the hunt for Perry was a huge boon for both my ego and my reputation, and I'd lay even money it's the only thing that gave Doakes and half the rest of the department any respect for me. But now as a I sit here I can feel all that drain out of my gut like cold water. “Fuck,” is still the best I've got.

“Matthews and the DA want to reject his new statement and go on with the trial,” Dexter goes on, oblivious to my feelings— big shock. “But it's just a matter of time now.”

“What is?” I say weakly, staring at the floor. Goddamn him. He was the only dissenting voice in the station on Perry and I ignored him. I just wanted so badly for it to be true...

“Before the real killer surfaces again.”

And he sounds so fucking happy about it too. I sure as shit don't want to have to go to another scene and find another chopped-up dead girl, to have to walk into the station after that. This makes me look like such a green, gullible idiot. Why the hell didn’t I listen to Dexter before?

For some reason I think about Julia Wagner. Is she just feeding us a line too?

“Is that it?” I ask, just wanting to get off the phone.

Pause. “Yeah,” he says.

“Bye, Dex.” I lift the hunk of plastic away from my ear.

I think I hear a “bye” in reply right before I hit the button and kill the call. For a second I stare at the phone, then I toss it over to the couch, feeling pissed at it and at myself and at my brother. Jesus christ, Neil Perry set us up— set _me_ up, exactly what my brother's been insisting since the arrest. That fucking waste of skin and all our time.

“What was that about?”

I glance up to see Rudy standing in the hall. He's wearing yesterday's pants, looking down at me intently.

“That was Dexter. My brother,” I clarify, exhale. “He just called to take a huge shit on my investigation. I told you we work together, right?”

“Yeah.” He walks over, sits on the edge of the coffee table beside me. “What kind of shit?”

Either him sitting there so close or the frustration or some combination of the two drive me to want to touch him. “I don't really want to talk about it,” I say, reaching for his hand and pulling him closer.

“But it's obviously bothering you,” he says, apparently not getting my signal.

“Don't worry about it.” I shift forward on the chair, already feeling the air getting heavy in my chest. I reach for him, pull him toward me by the back of his neck, crush my lips against his. For a second he gives me nothing, is just completely stiff as I push and tug for entrance. “What?” I mutter into his mouth, surprised somewhere deep in my rapidly deadening neurons at his lack of response.

“Are you sure you don't want to talk?” he asks, pulling away a little.

I don't know whether to be touched by his concern or not. Frankly, I can't remember the last time anyone's even asked me something like that and meant it, but at the moment I couldn't give less of a shit about combing through my feelings. I don’t _want_ to comb through my feelings. I don’t even want to acknowledge them. “I'm really fucking sure,” I say and pull him back.

This time he does let me in, and all at once I can feel his heat as he shoves me back into the chair, dragging me onto his lap as he crushes me against the cushion.

Heat screams down my body as my thoughts fall away. I can feel his fingers tugging on my shirt, can smell our breath. Dimly, it registers that neither of us have bothered to brush our teeth yet, but the realization fades before I can really entertain it.

I suck in a breath through our tongues, my hand sliding down his chest.

_Fucking Neil Perry..._

_Fucking Dexter..._

_(fuck I don't want to think anymore_ )

 


	58. Fifteen Minutes

_ _

_Fifteen Minutes  
_ _Setting: “Shrink Wrap”_

* * *

It's 11:48.

I drop my arm back against the door, shift in my seat. I was pretty sure that it’s been at least fifteen minutes since my last watch check, but it turns out that that was only three minutes ago. Time is crawling along, and boredom is munching on my brain.

Doakes is a statue in the driver's seat, staring down the road with the same blank expression he's been wearing for the past hour. I haven't had to do the whole sitting around thing much, not since I got out of patrol, honestly, and my partner's fast making this the least amiable experience I can remember. Sometimes I appreciate that he isn't particularly chatty, but the rest of the time I'd rather not be stewing in our collective silence.

Especially when all we can do is wait. Fucking stake outs.

I look out our rain-speckled window at the house we're currently sitting on. Some indistinguishable bass-line is throbbing along inside— maybe rap, maybe reggae, maybe something else —and through the ever so slightly cracked window I can smell pot. Lots and lots of pot.

“I bet there's a fucking garden in there,” I mutter.

Doakes glances at me. “A garden of what?” he asks, sounding completely uninterested.

“Dope,” I reply.

“Maybe,” he rumbles, then goes back to looking out the window.

Well, that broke the silence for three seconds.

I glance at my watch again, which is becoming more of a compulsion than anything.

11:49.

Fuck.

I drop my arm.

Several days ago, the body of one Jorge Nunez was found wrapped in an old, cheap rug in a dumpster near a Burger King in south Allapattah by a homeless guy who'd climbed in to rummage around inside. When I arrived on scene, a single, naked foot was sticking out of the trash, toes whiteish-pink, the whole mess wreaking of garbage and death and swarming with flies. The dumpster was loaded onto the back of a van and sent to the morgue. We had an ID off the fingerprints by the next day.

Tox came in yesterday. Jorge died of an overdose off a speedball— a mix of cocaine, heroin, and Valium he'd injected into his arm about four days before he was found—but according to the coroner, he didn't officially die until sometime after he'd been wrapped in the rug. At the least we're looking at manslaughter. At most, murder.

And this shithole we're watching is the place where we can safely assume he took the fatal dose.

I listen to the music, which is occasionally punctuated by yelling and arguing, wondering for at least the sixth time if there might be another dead person in there.

But if everything goes right tonight, we're not going in to find out. We're just waiting for Carlos and Nina to come out: Jorge's drug-injecting pals who were also almost certainly the very dipshits who wrapped him up and threw him in the dumpster about a mile and a half down the street from here.

I'm hoping this doesn't take much longer. Not that I really have anywhere to be tonight, since Rudy left on an out-of-town trip for the next two nights (apparently there's some conference in Orlando, I don't know...), but my ass is starting to feel like it's become one with the seat.

“Someone's coming out, north side,” Batista's voice crackles over the intercom, attracting my attention. Doakes and I both sit up, stare through the dark at the house. Sure enough, a solitary figure has made his way off the porch, is now wandering down the poorly-lit sidewalk toward our car.

I grab the two mugshots off my lap, hold them up. “Not our guy,” I say into our radio after a beat. “Too short.”

“Shit,” Doakes says, leaning back in his seat.

Right fucking with you, I almost say but check my watch again instead. 11:52.

I exhale, thoughts circling back to Julia Wagner, who's still negotiating with the prosecutor over murder two, and Neil Perry, who's... well, in legal limbo. Matthews and the DA are pushing to try him as the Ice Truck Killer despite the fact that he recanted. I've lost all faith in my bust, have finally accepted my brother's viewpoint that Perry was just an especially malignant leech who'd attached himself to the case. Since that morning he called with the news, I feel like I've been holding my breath, just waiting for another chopped up dead girl to show up in some new, random place.

Because Dexter's right: there's no way a guy like this is going to let some fucking weenie like Perry take the credit for these killings. He's gonna surface again sooner rather than later, and when he does it's gonna be too gruesome and obvious even for the Brass to push onto a copycat.

And that's—

_CRACK!_

I sit up, look at Doakes, my thoughts instantly falling back to Earth. “What the fuck was that?” I ask, but I know what it was.

He's staring intently at the house, looking as tightly coiled as a spring. His hand's on the door.

_CRACK! CRACK!_

Two more shots. The music cut out abruptly with the first, leaving a ringing silence in its absence.

Batista's voice goes over the radio just as Doakes reaches for the intercom. “We've got shots fired, corner of Northwest 21st Court and Northwest 28th. Requesting immediate back up, all available units.”

My fingers are hooked in the door latch, and I'm staring at the dumpy little house. Nobody's running out screaming, but with the music cut out I can clearly hear at least four or five voices yelling in unison.

“What do we do?” I ask Doakes.

But before he can answer the porch door is opening, and four figures are spilling out. They stop in the lawn, one stumbling into and over a plastic chair, knocking them both to the grass. All of them are laughing and shouting in Spanish, and in the light I can just make out the flash of something small and steel in one of their hands.

“Gun,” Doakes reads my mind.

“Shit,” I reply.

Our flack jackets are lying in the back seat, and I quickly reach back for them, deposit them in our laps. As we slip into them, the porch door flies open again, and a fifth figure comes out, this one screaming something angrily in Spanish. He makes his way down the steps, then goes up to the guy with the gun, shoves him hard. More yelling.

I glance at Doakes, afraid of what we might be about to witness, and as one we open the door. I pull out my pistol.

“Police!” he booms, gun already up and out. “Freeze!”

I stand beside the car, my own gun also up and ready, and I can feel my pulse thumping in my ear as the shouting dies out and the guys in the yard turn to look at us. The one with the gun is just standing there stupidly, looking like a dog caught in a busy intersection, but any second I'm expecting him to raise it.

“Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air!” Doakes shouts as Batista and Ramos appear from the left side of the street, their feet splashing through puddles.

None of them do anything, just keep on standing there, staring at us like we sprouted out of the concrete.

“Drop your weapon!” Doakes shouts again. I can hear sirens in the distance, and I can only hope they're coming in our direction.

Batista says something in Spanish, probably repeating Doakes. The four of us are now in a sort of half moon formation around the gate to the house. A wall of chain link separates us from the junkies. As I watch them just over the white dots of my sights, I recognize both Nina and Carlos, who're staring at us in open terror. The sirens are getting louder.

And then, suddenly, the fifth angry guy clocks the one with the gun from behind, and another gunshot pierces the air as he falls. All of us flinch, our guns going up as we shift forward, and abruptly two figures break off from the group and start running toward the back end of the house.

“Motherfuck,” I swear, and before I've even thought about it I'm running left along the chain link. I skid around the corner and run through the parking space in front of the ugly-ass duplex I've been staring at for the past two hours. I can hear Doakes behind me as a I reach a chain link door, which is somehow, miraculously, unlocked, and barrel through it. The sirens are loud at our backs and I can hear Batista shouting some more instructions in Spanish as Doakes and I rush through the pitch black backyard over bottles and high grass and fuck knows what else. My heart pounds in my ears.

“Police, stop!” I shout for no reason I can think of as my foot smashes something that sounds and feels like a can, and then we've reached another gate, this time locked.

“Fuck,” I mutter, hunting around for the latch as Doakes stops beside me. Now I can clearly hear the footfalls and gasping breaths of our perps on the other side of the fencing. “Come on.” I yank the U-shaped thing hard, then push the door forward as it opens. And we're running again.

“Freeze!” Doakes calls from behind me as we turn onto the street. Carlos and Nina are both running along the sidewalk to fuck knows where, barely a handful of yards ahead of us. At the sound of his voice, one of them veers left toward another shitty house and jumps to scale the fence. He makes it halfway up before falling flat on his ass on the sidewalk.

“Morgan!” Doakes barks, then keeps running after Nina. I go for Carlos, tackling him as he's struggling to get back to his feet.

“Freeze, Carlos,” I say between a breath as I straddle him on the wet, filthy concrete, holstering my gun. “Stay the fuck down and put your hands behind your back.”

He flops like a fish below me, a steady flow of Spanish pouring out of him between inhales. After a second of this I just grab his arms myself, drag them behind him and cuff him. My hands are shaking from the adrenaline rush.

“Fuck,” I whisper, wondering if Doakes has had any success. When I turn I see red and blue lights bleeding from between the houses on the other side of the block, reflecting off puddles and windows, the sound of sirens bouncing discordantly around the streets.

“I didn't do anything,” Carlos starts murmuring below me, head rolling back and forth against the ground. So maybe he does speak English.

“You're under arrest,” I say to him, though he's not in any state for me to read him his Miranda.

“I didn't do anything,” he repeats.

“Yeah, right,” I mutter.

Hearing the clattering of heavy police belts and footsteps, I glance back to see a bunch of uniforms jogging in my general direction, through the same yard Doakes and I exited half a minute ago. At the sound of them, Carlos starts struggling and begging in Spanish again, but he barely gets a sentence out before the other cops have surrounded us. They help haul him to his feet as I get up.

“Thanks,” I say, puffing out a breath and brushing off my knees, which are wet and gross from contact with the pavement.

“No problem,” one guy says. His name badge reads Sanchez.

I move a few steps into the middle of the street, immediately spot Doakes walking toward us, Nina Romero in tow. He looks unhappy. The second Nina spots Carlos, she starts screaming something in Spanish to him.

Shit, I really need to take a language class or something…

“We've got a unit coming around,” Sanchez says as he reaches us.

Doakes grunts and nods, ignoring the woman who's still struggling in his grip. Next to him, she looks like she weighs about fifty pounds.

We all stand here for a bit, waiting and breathing. When I look around at the neighboring houses, I spot shapes moving behind the windows. Everyone's curious but no one's coming outside. I guess it's just as well.

Finally the patrol car rounds the block, drives up with gumball flashing but no siren. Doakes and I gratefully release custody to the uniforms, watch them direct our perps into the car.

When the door shuts I feel the last of the adrenaline go with it, and suddenly I'm left only with an empty feeling in my chest and an intense desire to find and light up a cigarette.

“You alright?” Doakes asks.

“Yeah,” I reply. I wish he smoked. “You?”

“Yeah.” He nods toward the gate we went through to end up here. “I'm gonna go check up on Batista. You stay here with our suspects.”

“No problem,” I say, falling against the cruiser trunk.

As I watch him disappear back into the yard, I feel my heartbeat start to settle back to normal, and I really, really wish I had a cigarette. Or, three.

And for some reason I find myself glancing at my watch again.

12:01.

Less than ten minutes ago, Doakes and I were still sitting in our car, not talking.

Jeez.

I look through the window at our suspects, still sort of hearing them even through the glass. I wonder what sort of bullshit stories they're going to tell us once they come down off their respective highs. I'm curious to know what they'll say about why they ran from us, and about why they stuffed their friend, still-living, into a dumpster.

I glance up to see an ambulance turn the corner, driving in our direction. EMTs are going to have to check them both out to make sure they'll survive whatever shit's pumping through their veins.

And after that, they're all ours.

I get off the trunk, walk out toward the ambulance as it parks beside us.

I wonder if there's any chance in hell I'll be home by two.

 


	59. Not a Stabbing

_ _

_Not a Stabbing  
_ _Setting: “Father Knows Best”_

* * *

It's been two weeks and nine scenes since we arrested Julia Wagner: four accidents, two suicides, one homicide, one 'we still don't have any fucking idea.' A lot of people die in Miami.

I walk through the door into the bedroom, my gaze passing over beige carpet and a bed set that looks too big for the room before it lands on the body.

Mark this one number ten. I feel something weird press into my chest as I look down at her.

She's just a little old lady, lying face down in a small pool of blood on the floor. Her short-cropped, curly white hair is unstained, a shock against her dark skin and the red-brown of her blood, already drying in the carpet. She's wearing silk, flower-patterned pajamas, and when I glance back at the bed I spot a cane leaning against the mattress.

I turn away, swallow. What kind of motherless fuck would stab an old lady?

A shadow in the doorway attracts my attention, and I look up to meet Dexter's eyes. He stopped there the same way I did, but his expression is just as impassive as ever. I wonder how many crime scenes it took for all this shit to stop bothering him— how long it'll take me.

“Morning,” he says, like we're not standing three feet from a dead body.

“Wanna come in, tell me who the fuck would do something like this?” I reply.

He pauses for a beat before walking in, taking pictures as he does. “Where is everyone?” he asks before squatting down beside her.

“Batista and Doakes are en route from the station,” I say. “I was coming from home when we got the call, so I got here before them.”

“From home?” he repeats. “What were you doing?”

I was with Rudy. “I was running a little late,” I hedge.

“Hm,” he murmurs. I almost want to ask him what that means when he opens his mouth again. “I don't think this is a stabbing,” he says.

“No?” I ask, stepping a little closer.

“No,” he repeats, shaking his head. “See? No cast off anywhere.” He gestures in an arc around the body, and I look at all the clean carpet before his fingers come to rest just over the old woman's bloody nose and open mouth. “It came from here.”

I stare at her, feeling uncomfortable despite myself. “How do you know there's not a stab wound under her, in her chest or something?”

He shrugs. “Experience.”

I try to catch his eyes, but they're hidden behind his camera. “So if this isn't a stabbing, what is it?” I ask, giving up.

He takes another picture, then pauses, lets his camera sag. “Was that a relative in the living room?” he asks.

I almost forgot about her. “Yeah,” I say. “Daughter. She's the one who found her.”

The camera goes back up. “Did you talk to her?”

“No, not yet.” I shake my head. “Not really,” I revise. “She said she needed a few minutes.” And I could hardly blame her. “Why?” I refocus on him.

He reaches over and pulls on one of the old woman's thin arms. It doesn't budge an inch. “She's already in rigor. The daughter may've tried to move her onto her back when she found her, and the disturbance caused the blood that had pooled in her throat to come out here.” He points to the sludge. “The technical term is purge.”

As he says it I can imagine that woman in the other room coming in to find her, doing just what he said— crying out as she checks for a pulse, only to find her mom cold and stiff. And for some stupid reason I think of the last time I ever saw my own mom, all tubed up in her bed, looking like a goddamn skeleton, her weak grip on my hand.

“So you don't think this was a homicide?” I ask, shoving away the memory.

“I don't think it was a stabbing,” he corrects. “Could still be a...” His phone cuts him off. “Homicide,” he finishes, ripping off his glove and reaching into his pocket. “This is Dexter Morgan,” he answers when he finally gets the thing out, and after a beat he stands up. “Oh.”

I eye him curiously, wondering if it's work or personal.

“Yeah, I understand. I'll be right there.”

Right where?

“Yeah.” Pause. “Yeah, okay. I'll tell her.”

He ends the call, stuffs the phone back into his pocket. “That was LaGuerta,” he says, taking off his other glove. “Doakes was in a shooting.”

I blink as a small shock goes through my chest. “What?” I say “Is he okay?”

“Yeah.” He slings his bag back over his shoulder. “He wasn't hurt, but there's a man dead and they need me at the scene.”

He tries to move past me, but I get between him and the door. “Whoa, what?” I say. “Details, Dex.”

He sighs as he stops. “That's all I know.”

“I should go with you.” I wonder what possibly could've happened between the station and here. What, did Doakes and Batista come across a robbery or a drug deal or something? “Doakes is my partner.”

Dexter shakes his head. “LaGuerta told me to tell you to stay on scene. She's sending Ramos and Masuka out.”

“So I'm supposed to just stand around here with my thumb up my ass?”

He glances behind him, at the dead old lady.

I exhale, feeling a slight twinge of guilt. “Shit,” I mutter, then move away. “Fine, go.”

He nods and goes away, leaving me alone. I watch him until he disappears around the corner. No one from the coroner's office or CSU has arrived yet, so other than the uniforms, it's just me here. Me and the old lady.

And the daughter in the other room.

I stare down at the body. Now that my brother said she wasn't stabbed I'm starting to wonder if this may've been natural, like an aneurism or something. I look at the remote to the TV sitting on the comforter, just beside a hot water bottle and a heart-shaped pillow. Something weirdly like grief rises up my throat, and I swallow it, turn away and walk down the hall my brother just vacated through. When I reach the living room, the daughter is gone, and the only person I see is a uniform, who's standing stiffly near the door.

“Where did she go?” I ask.

“She said she needed some air.” He gestures out the window.

I look where he's pointing, see another uniform standing on the porch. I don't see Kathleen Jenkins, but I can only assume she's sitting out there somewhere.

I need to take her statement, but I want a breath of fresh air myself first. Even though this is the cleanest scene I've been to in awhile, I've never wanted to leave it more. The house just smells like grandmother, and it reminds me uncomfortably of my own mother's mother. Of course, she died before I could ever really know her, just a few years before Mom.

I head for and out the front door, pull out my cell phone. On impulse, I speed dial Doakes, wanting to know more about what happened, but the call dumps directly to voice mail. Probably on the phone or something. I debate calling Batista but decide not to. I guess I'll find out what happened when I get back to the station.

Besides, I have more important shit to do right now.

I put my phone away, take a breath, try to steel myself. Talking to the families hasn't even started getting any easier, and at the moment I don't even have any answers for her. I can't help but want to offer some sort of comfort, even despite Doakes' advice and my own sense of self-preservation.

Then again, I assumed Julia Wagner was just a grieving widow. For all I know, Kathleen Jenkins poisoned her mother, is just staging the whole thing.

I pause at my own cynicism, adjust my footing. I refuse to let myself become like the rest of the cops in the station, at least not yet. Not everyone is a lying asshole.

Exhaling, I turn around, head back into the house. Time to talk to the daughter, see if my brother's theory holds any weight. By the time I'm done hopefully back up from the station will have arrived, and I'll be that much closer to getting the fuck out of here.

 


	60. Some Kind of Mistake

_ _

_Some Kind of Mistake  
_ _Setting: “Father Knows Best”_

* * *

I watch Dexter as he talks to Masuka about something. His door's closed, his purse is on his shoulder, and he's still holding that envelope from this morning. He hasn't come to talk to me about it since I gave it to him, and it's kind of aggravating me.

Actually, if I’m being honest, it’s really aggravating me.

Finally he breaks off with his little buttbuddy, comes walking in my direction. I smile at him and he smiles back.

“Night, Deb,” he says, then keeps right on walking.

“Yeah, night, Dex,” I say to his retreating back, my smile falling off my face.

Really, Dexter? Nothing? You don't want to talk about this at all?

I slump onto my hand, glare at my computer screen. Part of me wants to get up and chase after him. Even though this guy, this Joseph Driscoll, was obviously a nutsack or something to make this kind of mistake, it still feels like something that's worth talking about. Dexter's never really talked about the fact that he's adopted, but then again he never really talks about anything, so fuck knows if it's bothering him or not. Does even the possibility that this guy could've been his father weigh on him? At all?

At the least it's making me uncomfortable. Clearly, this was all some big fucking mistake, but I wish he'd ask for my input or something. He's been on the phone half the evening with who I can only assume are the people involved with the estate, and I want to know what he found out. ( _Not even a casual update, Dex? Not even a 'Hey, this is pretty fucking weird, huh, sis?'_ )

Abruptly, I shove out of my seat, head around the corner to the elevator. By sheer dumb luck my brother's still standing there, looking through the will again.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he echoes, looking up.

“So what's up with this dead guy, Dex?” I decide to skip any kind of preamble. “You get everything straightened out?”

“Uh, unfortunately, no,” he says, shutting the folder. “I just got off the phone with the probate lawyer— the guy who drafted the will. He said Joseph Driscoll was of sound mind when he came in, did it a couple years ago after some kind of health scare.”

I study him, looking for... something on his face, but he looks as calm as ever. “So if this guy was so fucking sure that he was your father, why didn't he ever contact you? I mean, Dade City's, what, four hours from here? Why didn't he ever hop in his car, come visit?”

He just looks at me. “Five hours, actually, and I don't know.” The elevator doors open, and he glances at them like he's wondering if I'm done.

But I'm not done. “So what're you going to do?” I ask.

“Well, I have to go up there. Tomorrow.” He shifts his shoulder bag, waggles the envelope. “According to this, I'm Joseph Driscoll's only next of kin. I have to deal with the house, his body...”

And he says it like he's talking about going for his morning doughnut run. “Have to or want to?” I ask.

His eyebrows twitch a little. “I don't know, Deb. Someone has to deal with it.”

“And that someone has to be you?” I don't know why the thought of him going up there bothers me so much. Maybe it's the fact that I can tell that he's curious, underneath that damn placid façade.

The elevator doors start to shut, and he sticks his arm out, stops them. “I don't think there's anyone else,” he says as they clunk back to their sides. “And I'm being held responsible for his body.”

“This morning you had no idea who this fuck is,” I say. “You _still_ don't. And now he’s your responsibility? You're just going to drop everything and go up there?”

He sighs. “I don't... I don't know what you want me to say.”

I don't either. I exhale, push my hair back. “Do you want me to come with you?” I ask.

“No.” He shakes his head. “No reason for you to have to come all the way up there too.”

No reason except I'm your only family and this a fucking weirdass situation. “Okay,” is what I say.

He flashes me another little smile, walks into the elevator. Apparently to him we've said all we need to say.

( _But..._ ) I throw my hand in front of the doors as they start to shut again, and he looks at me with mild surprise. “You know I'm here if you want to talk,” I say. “About this.”

“Yeah,” he says. And that smile again.

Fine. Whatever. I fucking give up. “Well,” I say, “good luck, brother.”

“Thanks,” he replies. “Night.”

“Night.”

And then the doors close, for good this time.

I stand here for a second, annoyed. I don't know what I expected, if I expected anything. It's not like he's acting particularly out of character, but maybe that's the problem. Is he really thinking about this? Would he be going up there anyway even if he hadn't been named the sole executor?

Because I know I would. I'd be curious, if I were him.

And despite myself, I'm kind of curious too. I know what Dad said, and I still believe him one hundred percent, and this all has to be some ridiculous fucking mistake, but I know the possibility has got to be niggling at Dexter even more than it's niggling at me.

Abruptly, I turn on my heel, go back to my desk, fall into my chair. I've got that dead old woman to think about. But of course there won't be anything to investigate until the ME gets back to us, tells us whether it's even a homicide or not. According to Ramos and Masuka it looked like an accident, but I'm already starting to wonder if anything is ever as cut and dry as it looks.

I glance up, look over at Doakes' desk. Its owner is gone, off on leave after this morning's shooting. I was never even able to talk about it with him, and Batista was squirrely as shit when I asked him about the details.

Part of me doesn't even want to press any further. But, for as hot-headed as my partner can be, I know he wouldn't be involved in an unrighteous shooting. He had a good reason for pulling that trigger.

I guess I'll talk to him about it tomorrow.

Even though it's basically shift end, I grab the old woman's case file, flip it open, then re-open one of the documents on my computer, set my hands over the keyboard. For awhile I just work, trying not to think about Dexter or Doakes or much of anything else besides that old house— family pictures and knitting needles and the fucking poinsettia on the kitchen counter, just beside a fat stack of Christmas cards. Anna Williams died unexpectedly, less than two weeks away from Christmas and some big, soppy family reunion, I'm sure.

The thought depresses me. I hate the holidays.

At some point into this process my phone buzzes, and I look down at it, broken out of my report. When I glance back up at my computer's clock, I realize it's been almost forty minutes since I sat down.

Crap.

I reach for the phone. “Hello?” I answer.

“Hey.”

Rudy. I find myself smiling just at the sound of his voice. “Hey,” I say.

“So I'm almost to the pizza place,” he says. “What do you want?”

I shrug even though he can't see it. “Get whatever looks good. Just no anchovies.”

“Right. Ixnay on the little fish.”

“It's their little fucking heads.” I adjust the phone. “I've just gotta finish up here. I'll be home in an hour if you want to wait.”

“Sure. I'm off and I’m made of time.”

“Thanks. See you soon.”

“Not soon enough,” he replies. Sometimes he's so fucking cheesy.

I smile again and hang up, set the phone on my desk. When I look up, Batista's staring at his computer, not typing, his hat pushed low on his face. I wonder if it's all this shit with Doakes that's bothering him, or if it's not still that thing about his wife and those Neil Diamond tickets.

I know his life is falling apart, but right now I sure as shit don't want to talk about it anymore.

I shut down my computer, get up. “Going home,” I say as I grab my purse.

Batista looks up at me.

“See you tomorrow,” I continue.

“Night, Morgan,” he says, sounding about as miserable as he looks.

“Night,” I reply, then walk away, head for the stairwell. Down the steps I go, thoughts swinging back to Dexter and that envelope like they're glued to a pendulum.

Obviously, this is all some big fucking mistake, and it means nothing, not to me or to my brother.

Right?

 


	61. Pulling the Trigger

_ _

_Pulling the Trigger  
_ _Setting: “Father Knows Best”_

* * *

“ _She'll still be dead on Monday.”_

The phrase keeps bouncing annoyingly through my head as I walk through the station for the elevator.

I guess some dead old lady isn't taking any priority in a city where something like seventeen percent of the population are snowbirds. Still, if the daughter calls me again today I've gotta tell her that her mother won't be receiving the autopsy until Monday, something she barely was okay with being done in the first place. This is one of those rare fucking moments where I _almost_ miss the simplicity of working in Vice— most of it was pretty victimless, depending on your dictionary anyway.

I hit the button, shift my folder under my armpit.

On a quasi-positive note, for us anyway, the report on the motel crime scene from two weeks ago finally came through: suicide. I'm sure with everything going on Doakes'll be happy to hear it. One less case to juggle, or put on hold, depending on which direction IA decides to swing its dick.

The doors open.

Forty seconds later I'm setting the folder and my purse on my desk before heading for the break area for a cup of water. On the way I spot my partner through the windows in the lieutenant's office. He and LaGuerta are talking, door shut. This is the first time I've seen him since before the shooting. He wasn't in this morning.

Hm.

I grab my mug and go to the water jug, flip up the tab. Barely two seconds in I see a big shirt covered in palm fronds coming toward me.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” Batista replies. “You seen your brother?”

I flip back the tab, stand up straight. “He's off today,” I say. Up in Dade Fucking City. I don't say that.

“Oh, right,” he says. He still looks upset about something. “Just wanted to talk to him again about a blood report.”

I study him for a second, take a sip of water. “Everything alright?”

His expression seems to fall even further. “I told you Nina refused to see the counselor?”

“Yeah.” I nod, not wanting to have that conversation again. “I'm sorry, Angel.”

“Thanks. Just been a rough few days, you know?”

I reach over and pat him on the shoulder. “You'll get through it.” Of course, even despite the three-month separation and her pushing for the divorce, he's still wearing the ring. And he only just stopped lying about what’s been going on to all of us.

“I appreciate you saying so.” He shifts. “How're things with your boyfriend, uh...”

“Rudy,” I supply, suddenly smiling for no reason. “And things are going really well.”

“Good,” he says, pauses. “You've gotta treasure these moments, Morgan. Don't get caught up in all the little shit. It can build into a mountain before you even see it.”

“We're not there yet,” I say, holding up my hand. “Not even close to there yet. Honestly, right now everything's pretty...” I trail off, noticing Doakes heading out of LaGuerta's office, “uncomplicated.”

“Glad to hear it.” He glances back to where I'm looking, sees Doakes walking toward us. “Well, I've gotta get back to work.”

I nod, take another sip of water as Batista moves away. He and Doakes make eye contact as they pass each other but say nothing. The tension's thick as concrete, and I still don't know what the fuck it's about.

“How's it going, Morgan?” Doakes asks as he grabs his mug and sets it next to the coffee pot.

“Apparently my old dead chick from yesterday is low priority, won't even know if it was a homicide or not until Monday,” I say. “Good news is the ME finally made a ruling on that motel strangulation.”

He glances up at me, pouring his coffee. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I take another sip of water. “Turns out he did that to himself.”

He snorts, picks up his mug. “Whatever happened to a noose?”

“Fuck if I know.” I drink as he does, this time more to kill time than anything. “So what happened under that causeway?” I ask after a beat.

His mug lowers. “I cornered him. He shot at me. I fired back.”

“You didn't just fire back,” I say, though it occurs to me as I say it that I might be crossing a line. “You landed a hit, killed him. You alright?”

“Yeah.” His reply is as stony as his face, and he really looks like he doesn't give a shit— about what he did or about the fact that I'm asking.

“IA clear you yet?” I ask, even though I know it's too soon.

“No.” He takes a long sip. “But it was cut and dry. Even those fucking pencil-necks won't be able to drag this out once they finish combing through the reports.”

I shouldn't ask, but, “So what's up with Batista?”

His face shifts into a slightly deeper scowl. “He's got Jiminy Fucking Cricket sitting on his shoulder, and he only saw the aftermath.” He exhales. “Angel's a good cop, but he's never killed anyone in the line of duty, and he's got a real fucking rosy way of looking at the world. As far as he's concerned none of us should ever have to exercise lethal force.”

I set down my mug, cross my arms. “But you don't believe that?”

“I saw and did a lot of shit in Special Forces.” His eyes suddenly seem to bore into my own. “I've seen evil, Morgan. I hope for your sake you can ride all the way through to your pension without seeing that kind of emptiness, but if you ever do, you'll understand. Sometimes it's not about making a choice.”

I don't know what to say to that, but something in his face has dried half the moisture in my mouth.

“I've gotta go finalize my report, make some calls,” he says before I can think of a reply. “Give me the eggheads' report from the motel scene when you're done with it.” And then he walks back to his desk, barely waiting for my “okay.”

For a second I just stand here, then I grab my water, take a long drink. I still don't know what the fuck happened under that causeway, but I'm starting to think that maybe I don't want to know. I don't know what to think about my partner's lack of doubt or remorse either. If it were me... I feel like the weight of it might crush some part of me.

Then again, who knows what he saw in Specials Ops, or how much of that weight he's still shouldering.

Slowly, I head back to my desk, take a seat, look at the stacks of reports and chain of custody forms I've got to fill out. But my thoughts are still caught on that question of whether or not I could ever pull the trigger if it came to it, how I would feel if I had to.

Clearing my throat, I reach for my purse and dig for my phone, pull it out and punch through to contacts.

 _Lunch at 1:30?_ I type. Hit send. Put it down.

I wonder if Rudy's gonna keep pushing the idea of going up to Dade City and surprising Dexter at his new house. I mean, maybe he's right: maybe my brother would appreciate me coming, even if he would never ask for it. He's not like me. He never asks for anything, never seems to want any help, but maybe in this case that just means I have to be the one to reach out. I know in his shoes I'd want the support.

My phone buzzes.

_Make it 2_

I grab it. _Want me to pick u up?_

_No I'll meet you_

_Okay._ I add some obnoxious emoticon, hit send, put it back on my desk.

Fuck it. Barring a call to some new crime scene, I've got the weekend off and there are worse ways to spend it than with my brother and my boyfriend up in some dead guy's house. Besides, Rudy's been asking to set up a rendez-vous for weeks, and Dexter can't avoid us if we literally show up on his doorstep.

So I guess I'm going— we're going. Dade Fucking City here we come.

Right after I get out of here, anyway.

 


	62. A Lack of Sentiment

_ _

_A Lack of Sentiment  
_ _Setting: “Father Knows Best”_

* * *

The house still smells like... I don't know, _something_ , as I roll out of the sofa bed and head for the bathroom with toiletries in tow. That weird sort of Otherness permeates the whole place. I still have no idea who the fuck this Joseph Driscoll even was, but we're walking through all his shit just as he left it before he died, and in that way it reminds me of a crime scene.

Of course, for all I know, he did die somewhere in this house.

I glance at myself in the mirror, smooth some of the bedhead out with my fingers.

Yeah, whatever.

A few minutes later, I'm walking back out, and I head automatically for the kitchen, yawning and wondering if Joe drank coffee. When I reach it, I find Rita there alone, sitting at the cheap little table and staring off at nothing as she sips from a generic, yellow mug.

“Morning,” I say.

“Oh, morning,” she replies in her breathy voice, smiling up at me. “There's coffee on the counter if you want some.”

“Thanks,” I say, as I walk over and open a random cabinet. I find mugs behind the second door, and I pull one out, give it a quick rinse. “Where is everybody?” I ask, setting it down and reaching for the pot.

“Dexter already went out to the morgue about an hour ago,” Rita says. “I haven't seen Rudy.”

Maybe he went out for a run or something. He was up early, as usual. “The morgue's open at seven on a Saturday?” I pour myself a cup, dump in some sugar from the box that's sitting next to the coffeemaker.

When I turn around, Rita shrugs. “I guess so.”

“Hm,” I grunt, then take the seat across from her. It kind of annoys me, just a little, that Dexter left without waking me up. Maybe to him Joe Driscoll really is just another dead guy at another morgue and this whole situation is nothing more than an irritating waste of a weekend, but I still wish he'd reached out to me. You know, since I'm fucking _here_ and all _._

“He seems nice,” Rita says, shifting her hands on her lap. “Rudy, I mean. Coming all the way up here to help pack up this house.”

I smile. “Yeah, he is a nice guy.” A metric shit-ton better than my previous five or so disasters. ( _fucking Sean..._ )

She smiles back at me with a motherliness that always reminds me vaguely of my own mom. “How'd you meet? Dexter never said.”

I push the mug handle in the opposite direction, wrap my hands around the base. “Through one of my cases, actually. Rudy does prosthetics. I don't know if you remember from the news, the Ice Truck Killer victim, that security guard Tony Tucci?”

She nods. “Yeah, of course. You were the one who found him.”

“Yeah.” And that fucking mildewy basement still haunts my nightmares. “Rudy made his prosthetics. I met him at the hospital.”

“Wow,” she says. “That sounds like a really interesting job, putting people back together again.”

“You should see his workshop.” I grin at her, but let it fade as I study all those worry lines on her face. “So how's everything with you, the kids?” I pause before adding, “Paul?”

Her expression falls a little. “Oh, you know, Astor and Cody are doing well. Cody still doesn't like math, but Dexter's been helping him. I think he's improving.”

She's deflecting. “And Paul?” I press.

“Paul...” She trails off, glances down at her coffee. “He's just... Paul.”

Yeah, and I remember Paul, or, more specifically, I remember finding him standing over her with a bat. “Has he threatened you?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “No, nothing like that.”

I lean in slightly. “But there's still trouble?”

Another shrug and a helpless sort of look. “He's just Paul,” she says again. “Even if nothing's happened yet, I feel like I'm always holding my breath around him, you know?” She exhales, half-smiles. “I don't know what I'd do without Dexter. Sometimes it seems like he's the only solid thing in my life.”

“Yeah, to be honest, I know what you mean,” I say, take a sip of coffee. And it’s true. I don’t know where I’d be without him. All those fucking years he took care of me, through high school, through college, through my endless strings of shitty relationships. He’s been the one constantly decent thing in my life, even if we have grown somewhat apart over the years.

“Nothing seems to shake him,” she continues. “He's always so patient with Astor and Cody, never even reacts to having Paul around. And now this whole situation with this Joseph Driscoll saying he was his father and leaving him this house...” She stops and picks up her mug, looks into it for a beat. “He's barely said anything about it, actually,” she says after the pause, looking back at me. “Has he talked to you?”

I feel another twinge of annoyance. “No.” I set my own mug down as she sips. “But Dex tends to keep things pretty bottled up. He's always been like that, ever since we were kids.”

She sets down her mug too, pauses again. “So I shouldn't read anything into it?” she asks eventually.

I shake my head. “No.” Though even as I say that, I know I'm not heeding my own reassurances.

“Oh, good. I was...” She stops. “I don't know, I guess I was worried about it. I just never know what he's thinking, and sometimes I worry about what that means. Paul was always so... transparent.”

“I guess you could say secrecy's one of my brother's many quirks,” I say, choosing not to share that I know exactly what she means. “Just don't take it personally.” Though, at the moment I definitely am.

I take another sip of coffee. Joe had shitty taste— whatever this is, it's weak swill.

Silence falls between us. My thoughts drift gradually back to the precinct: to Doakes and the shooting, to that dead old lady lying cold in the morgue, to the Ice Truck Killer investigation and the disturbing lack of... anything in that case. It's been a month and a half since Tony Tucci. Did he up and leave Miami after Neil Perry took the fall, or is he just waiting around somewhere for the perfect victim to stumble into his lap?

All I know is every day for the past couple weeks I've been waiting for a call to come through dispatch about another dead girl sectioned into pieces.

And suddenly the swill is gone. I drink the dregs with dissatisfaction, set my mug back down. When I glance at Rita she looks about as distracted as me, and I'd bet my left cheek that that thing weighing on her mind is about two hundred pounds of knuckle-dragging, white trash.

“Want more coffee?” I ask, getting up.

She shakes her head. “No thanks.”

I don't either honestly, but at least it's caffeinated.

I'm coming back from filling my mug a second time when Rudy steps through the door. “Oh, morning,” I say, surprised to see him standing there. From Rita's abrupt turn in her seat, she is too. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“Must be all the carpet,” he replies, walking over. “Morning,” he says just before kissing me lightly. He smells like sweat and his shirt is damp, but it almost smells good.

“Morning,” I say again, smiling up at him.

“You said that already.” He smooths some of my hair behind my ear, turns to Rita. “Have a decent night of sleep in Joe's old bed?”

She laughs shyly. “It was a little strange, I have to admit.”

“You've got that right,” he says, but it almost sounds like it's to himself. He glances between Rita and I. “So what do you gals say we tackle the garage while Dexter's off at the morgue?”

“Lot of shit in there, but it looked pretty straightforward,” I say. From the peep I took last night, the garage is filled with shit, but most of it's either already in boxes of one kind or another or could just be dragged to the curb. “Joe didn't seem like a particularly sentimental guy. Wasn't holding onto much personal stuff beyond all those fucking bowling balls and whatever's in those boxes.”

“Hey, that's good news for us.” Rudy looks down and plucks at his shirt. “I'm gonna go take a shower, change. I'll be right back.”

I almost ask if he wants company, but then I remember Rita's sitting right there. “Alright,” I say instead.

He nods and walks out, just as quietly and quickly as he appeared in the first place.

For a long moment there's just silence, and I take a sip of my shitty coffee. It's already moving toward lukewarm.

“I wonder what kind of man this Joe Driscoll was,” Rita says suddenly. “Hardly any photos or keepsakes. What did he do every day?”

I just look at her over my coffee, offer her a shrug. “Fuck if I know.”

And, if I'm honest, fuck if I care.

I take another sip of coffee.

 


	63. His Bio Dad

_ _

_His Bio Dad  
_ _Setting: “Father Knows Best”_

* * *

( _god fucking fuck_ )

I barely brake for the stop sign before accelerating again, just wanting to get the fuck away from this neighborhood and that house and Dexter.

_Dexter._

All I want in the world is one of the cigarettes in my purse, but Rudy doesn't want the smell fucking up his car, so I've just gotta keep going without them. And I can do that at least.

_Dexter._

The worst part of all this is that it doesn't even fucking surprise me: the DNA test, the tox screen, the sudden desire to figure this asshole out. Of course the heart attack wasn't really a heart attack. Of course he might've been murdered. But apparently he hasn't bothered asking himself _why_ anyone would want to murder some 60-something insurance agent without friends or family or any significant pastimes outside of bowling and NA meetings.

The guy died sad and alone in his shitty, wood-paneled house, which he left to a son he never even knew, never even bothered to visit. End of story. He doesn't deserve the time we've already given up for him.

_His son._

Jesus Christ.

I wrench the wheel violently to the left, wanting to exit this same-y, residential suburban hell. I know there's a strip mall somewhere the fuck around here.

I still can't believe it. He really was his father. Dexter's real dad was here all along, and he was _alive._

And Dad knew. He had to have known. Dad fucking _lied to us,_ even told us his parents' names were Howard and Diane Walsh.

Did Mom know too? How couldn’t she have?

I feel sick.

Fuck knows what Dexter and Dad used to talk about on all their little private jaunts together, but I know that at least in my presence the question of Dexter's biological parents was never brought up. After that conversation we had when Dad finally got the adoption papers, I honestly can't remember us ever talking about it.

But Dexter was raised a Morgan, not a fucking... Driscoll. Even if this guy was technically his father, he wasn't his _real_ father. Dexter grew up in our house, with Mom and Dad. With me. We're his family. _I'm_ his family.

( _but is that how he sees it_ )

Two days ago I never would've questioned it, and, as far as I'm concerned, nothing has changed. But Dexter? Even despite that blank-ass stare he gave me when I asked him if he might be reconsidering our relationship, I know he's got to be thinking about this. Why else would he have gotten so damn curious?

I clear my throat, try to push down that swirling mass of whatever in my guts.

And yesterday morning. Jesus, he went to the morgue alone, ordered those tests without even fucking telling me. What made him do it? What made him doubt Dad enough to order up a DNA test, and why didn't he come to me about it? I mean, fucking hell, would he even have _told me_ if I hadn't picked up his phone?

Why didn't he trust Dad? And why doesn't he trust me? This is a big fucking revelation. If something like this was happening to me, if I'd gone to the morgue to see some dead guy and for some reason suddenly realized that he might actually be my dad, the first person I'd run to would be my brother, not fucking Masuka.

I can’t believe he went to fucking Masuka about this…

( _what if this drives a wedge between us_ )

( _I mean, fuck, he never even called Dad anything but “Harry” our whole lives..._ )

He obviously drew the blood at the morgue, then came back to the house and went right back to packing, never bothered to say a fucking word about it. But why, if he felt strongly enough about this to somehow get those samples rushed down to Miami? Why wouldn't he tell me, his only fucking family?

And then he tells me he doesn't know what I want from him.

Well, gee, Dex, maybe you could fucking talk to me, treat me like I'm your sister. Like I'm someone you'd come to if you're having a crisis, someone you know gives a shit about you.

Like I’m someone you give half a shit about.

I choke suddenly, bark a “fuck” as my eyes sting. Take another random turn, wipe at my eyes with the side of my arm.

Is he really as stoic as is he seems? Can he really just go back to Miami and to his life after this, after learning that the fundamental reason he even became a member of my family was a lie, that the person we both looked up to most in our lives blatantly lied to us about it?

All I can think is Dad must've had a reason. A good one. Why else would he have kept a secret like this?

Those 30 years of NA badges. Maybe it was something that happened between years 1 through 29 that Dad was protecting him from. Joseph Driscoll could've been just like Paul Bennett: some drug-addled, wife-beating bag of dog shit. Maybe the best thing for all of us was that he was kept a secret. Better “dead in an accident” than alive and fucking up our lives.

And it would’ve been “our” lives. It’s not like this shit doesn’t affect me too.

I slam the breaks, noticing the little strip mall just before I go whizzing past it, then I turn in, grab some random space. In a second I'm out the door, and in the next I'm finally lighting up, exhaling hard and gratefully at the hit.

I close my eyes and lean back against Rudy's car, so fucking angry at Dexter for being such a secretive, placid asshole; at myself for losing it in front of Rudy and Rita, for storming out like a child. But I don't know what the fuck else kind of reaction I was supposed to have to him running those tests without telling me, let alone to the fact that it came back positive and now he wants to start up a fucking inquiry into his death.

What if Rudy had never talked me into coming up here this weekend? Would Dexter have just come back without a word about it? Would he have stayed here longer, chasing some syringe-toting ghost across Dade City?

Or would he have called and asked me to come up and help him deal with all this?

It bothers me that I don't know the answer. It bothers me more that I'd suspect scenario one to play out over the second.

And as I stand here I can't help but think about all the shit in that house we've been sifting through, about what kind of guy this Joseph Driscoll used to be. What would Dexter's life have been like if he'd been raised by him? What would my life have been like? Would Mom and Dad have had another kid, or would it have just been me?

What would have happened to me after Dad died? Would I have ended up in Myrtle Beach with Aunt Sylvia, for the couple years she had before she kicked it too? She probably would’ve been too sick to take me in, even then.

And then a thought, sharp like a barb.

What if his bio dad's not the only one Dad lied about? Is Dexter's mother living down in Tampa or something, sitting on her own little piece of inheritance for a son she hasn't seen in over thirty years? I don't remember seeing a single family photo anywhere in the house, nothing to suggest Joe had a relationship with a woman he wanted to immortalize in pictures, but half the boxes in the basement we never opened, and I haven't gone through his old bedroom. For all I know somewhere in that house are fucking photo albums of baby Dexter and Joe and his wife. ( _I bet her name wasn't even Diane, Jesus..._ )

I exhale a cloud of smoke.

I don't know what to do about this, if I'm even going to be able to do anything about this. If it were up to me, I'd just leave right now— leave Joe to some nondescript grave in potter's field and this house to sit vacant with all its shit still inside for the bank to deal with. Dexter agreed to finish packing and leave tomorrow, but for all I know he's just placating me. Who knows what else he might decide to investigate on his own, behind my back.

A new thought pokes at the back of my throat.

I don't trust him.

I take one last pull on the butt, drop it and grind it, then lean back into the car for my purse. I find another cancer stick, then drop the box on the seat.

Dexter's always kept everything to himself, is always going off on his little fishing trips or is just “out” with no explanation. I remember back when I lived with him in high school how many nights he just... wasn't there. There are so many things in his life I either don't know about or don't understand, and it bugs the shit out of me that he keeps me way the hell out beyond arm's length no matter how often I come to him for a little conversation or company or whatever. And he's always so damn calm, about fucking... everything.

Sometimes I worry he doesn't really care about us, that maybe there's something keeping him apart from me. Does he really see me as his sister? Could Joseph Driscoll and Dad's lie break the illusion of our family to him?

Or am I blowing this way the fuck out of proportion? Does this change nothing?

I glare at the strip mall, the little Chinese place and the Walgreens and the electronics store.

I wonder if there's any chance in fuck Dexter'll want to talk to me about this when I come back.

I snort at the thought, raise my cigarette back to my lips.

Yeah, right.

 


	64. Nothing's Changed

_ _

_Nothing's Changed  
_ _Setting: “Father Knows Best”_

* * *

I flip through the ME's report on my dead old lady, Anna Williams, as I walk back to my desk. The pages are still hot from the printer.

Cause of death: natural disease. If I'm honest, I don't particularly know or care about what half this technical shit really means, but I assume from the phrase “arteriosclerotic cardiovascular disease” that it involved her heart and a couch and a boatload of saturated fat.

I plop behind my desk, slide the case folder toward me and flip it open before going back to thumbing through the report.

But it doesn't really matter that I'm not reaching for my dictionary as long as that manner line doesn't say homicide on it. One less name on the board. More to the point, I was starting to entertain thoughts that it could've been the daughter, and that was a level of fuckery I wasn't looking forward to having to deal with.

I grab a pen and sign my name on a few of the documents, think vaguely about all the shit we took from that house as potential evidence that now needs to be signed back out. And for that I'm gonna need Masuka.

I glance back at Dexter's Lab, but Dee Dee's nowhere to be seen. Instead I spot Dexter himself, who's outside his little station and going through a box. After a beat he looks up, meets my gaze, and then he smiles, holds his hand up in a still wave.

I wave back, a small smile twitching at the corner of my mouth, but it fades when he goes back to doing whatever he's doing.

We got back from Dade City about two hours ago: both of us came straight here after dropping off our significant others to put in our half days. I'm surprised he didn't ask to take the rest of the day off, but I'm also not. Dexter hasn't said a word about Joe Driscoll or the results of the DNA test since we left that house. He's acting remarkably normal, like it's just another Monday, like nothing at all happened yesterday.

But I've been ruminating on it since Masuka's call, for most of last night and for that long-ass drive back to Miami. Because Dad lied, and the fundamental reason Dexter became a Morgan has now been called into question. Dad told us he took Dexter away from an accident scene where both his parents were killed, said he pulled him from CPS to save him from a life in foster care. But Howard Walsh never existed, and Joe Driscoll didn't die thirty years ago: he died last week. Did Dad pull Dexter from some kind of fucked-up, abuse situation, and he never told us the truth so Dexter would never decide to go out searching for his biological father one day?

Or is Howard Walsh not the only lie in the story? What if Diane Walsh didn’t exist either?

I look up from the old lady's folder, stare at my monitor. It would be so easy to type the name into records. In five seconds I'd know if there ever were any incident reports filed in 1973 belonging to the name Walsh comma Diane in Miami-Dade County.

My mouth goes dry at the thought.

Fuck but do I not want to know. I've always looked up to Dad, have always trusted him, and that hasn't changed. Sure, he lied to us, but there was a good reason for it. He never would've made up a story like that unless he felt like he had to protect us from the truth. And if what he wanted was to let it go, then I sure as hell am not gonna start digging into this crap.

Especially if Dexter isn't shaken by any of it.

I take my hand off my mouse, not remembering having put it there to begin with, go back to looking at Anna Williams' death certificate. After a beat I shut the folder, get up, head over to Ramos' desk.

“The ME faxed over her report on Anna Williams,” I tell him without a lead-in, holding out the folder.

He nods and takes it. “Good. Much better round-off to today after this morning.”

I heard from Doakes when I got back— some drug lab in Overtown blew up just around the time Dexter and I were pulling away from Joe's house. “Batista still there?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He sets the folder on his desk.

“Any bodies recovered?”

He shakes his head. “Fire's still going. Whatever the hell they were making in there wants to keep on burning.”

I'm almost glad I wasn't here this morning. I'd lay even money LaGuerta would've put me on it. “I'll take care of the evidence release for Williams,” I say.

He nods, already looking back at whatever I interrupted him from. “Great, thanks.”

Nodding, I walk away, passing Doakes as I go, who doesn't look up. He's already been cleared by IA, setting a possible land speed record from the slowest fucking department in Miami. I guess despite Batista's hesitation, the shooting must've been just as cut and dry as Doakes promised it was. Not that I ever really doubted him...

Mostly.

On impulse, I look back at Dexter's area for Masuka, but it’s still only my brother over there, digging through a box and pulling out what looks like lab equipment, alone. After a slight pause, I head for him, feeling something on the crossroad between nervous, irritated, and tense.

“Hey,” I say when I get there. “Where's Masuka?”

He looks up. “He's out on Batista's case, that explosion.”

Of course he is. “Right,” I say.

I start to turn around, but Dexter stops me with a hand on my arm. “Deb,” he says.

I study him, feeling something like hope leap in my chest at his tone. “Yeah?”

“I'm really not questioning anything.” His hand drops from my arm. “I don't know what all this...” he vaguely gestures around himself, “stuff about Joseph Driscoll really means or why Harry lied to me, but nothing's changed between us. You're still my sister. You’ll always be my sister.”

Heat rushes up my throat, so suddenly it almost hurts. “You really mean that?” I can't stop the question, as pathetic as it sounds.

“Of course,” he says it without a trace of irony, still looking about as turbulent as ice.

I suck in a breath, not sure what to say or why I so badly needed to hear that from him. Grinning, I hug him for the second time today, even though once again ( _as fucking usual_ ) all I get is a single, weak hand on my back in response.

“I love you,” I say when I pull away. For some reason it feels intensely important that I tell him that.

“Me too,” he says, that same stupid smile on his face.

I back off a step. “I'm gonna get back to work, but...” I pause, wondering how to phrase it now that I've got the opportunity, “hey, Rudy's not around tonight, said he's gotta go take care of something, so I'm around if you want to have dinner.” I pause again. “Or talk.”

His smile doesn't slip, but I've practically heard his reply before he voices it. “I'm sorry,” he says. “Maybe another night.”

Despite myself I can't stop the wash of disappointment. “It's okay.” I guess I can only hope for so much.

And with that I turn around, head back to my desk. For a second I just sit here, emotions swirling around my guts, thinking about what he said. We've always been close— I mean, fuck, since high school it's just been the two of us. I don't know why I let all this shit with Joseph Driscoll get to me so much, why I thought it might make Dexter... I don't know, pull away from me. Want to put me aside.

He's still just right over there.

Clearing my throat, I reach for my mouse, wake up my computer.

And if he wants to move on like this weekend never happened and like everything's perfectly fine between us, then I'm a-fucking okay with it. If I never think about Joseph Driscoll and his bowling trophies again, it’ll be too soon.

 


	65. Blood-Soaked

_ _

_Blood-Soaked  
_ _Setting: “Seeing Red”_

* * *

For a protected moment I just stand here, watching Dexter's blood-speckled back as it gets farther and farther away from me. I still can't quite shake the look that was on his face when he shoved out the hotel doors. He looked...

I don't know. ( _Sick? Upset? Scared?_ )

Whatever it was, it sent a lightning bolt straight down my throat and through my heart. Nothing ever shakes my brother. Ever. I've never seen a crisis he didn't meet with an ocean of placidity. Hell, he barely blinked when I told him about the DNA match between him and Joseph Driscoll. But today he's running away.

_From what?_

“What do you think that was about?”

Masuka's voice seems to unfreeze me from the concrete. I glance back at him, feeling my eyebrows sink, but instead of replying I take a step forward, then another. The walk turns into a trot, and in a moment I've caught up with Dexter at the CSU van. He's ripping away at the zipper on his full body suit with unsteady hands, face all screwed up in a way that looks completely alien on his features.

“Hey,” I say, stopping beside him.

He looks up at me. There's blood smeared on his face, but the ventilator and the goggles are already off his neck. “Deb, I'm fine,” he says. “Just give me a minute.”

“No.” I take another step toward him, feeling my chest compressing with fear. “What happened to you in there?”

He finally succeeds in dislodging the zipper, rips it down. In a second he's out of the giant condom and stuffing it and his gloves into a bag just beside his boots. When he stands up straight again he looks even worse than he did a minute ago. His skin’s gone the color of curdled milk.

“Hey,” I say again, trying to get him to look at me.

His eyes meet mine for a microsecond before he whirls around, vomits all over the pavement.

“Jesus,” I yelp, stepping back automatically as he falls to his knees, heaves up another round. My heart is pinballing around my chest as I move forward again, squat beside him and stick my hand on his back.

He groans, his own hands planted on the concrete as another day's worth of food comes up and out in a third wave. Low blood sugar my ass. Whatever the fuck he ate this morning he went back for thirds.

“Hey,” I say, rubbing his back. I can feel him quaking under my fingers.

“Must've been something I ate,” he says weakly, sucking in a breath.

“You're so full of shit.” I can only remember seeing Dexter puke exactly one other time in his life: when he walked into Dad's hospital room and saw him dead.

My brother says nothing, just draws another ragged breath. Then another.

The smell of his vomit and the blood from his soaking suit is starting to turn my own stomach, but I push it down, keep rubbing his back. And suddenly for some reason I become conscious of the fact that half the department is probably watching us.

I push that down too.

Dexter twitches, has another violent heave, but this time nothing. He moans, spits out a mouthful of white and frothy saliva, wipes at his mouth with the back of his arm. After a second, he clears his throat, pushes to his feet, and I back off.

“Ugh,” he groans, leaning back against the van. He closes his eyes and breathes.

I stand here staring at him, at a loss.

“Are you alright?” I ask finally.

He nods, opens his eyes and offers me one of his trademark deflecting smiles. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

“Clearly.” I point at the vomit all over the ground.

He glances down at it, then meets my gaze again. “Must've been some bad pork or something.”

“Five minutes ago it was low blood sugar because you skipped breakfast,” I shoot back, getting angry. “Jesus, Dexter, what the fuck happened up there?”

“Nothing happened,” he insists, looking guarded as hell. “I just... I don't know, maybe it was a combination of the smell in there and my breakfast.”

I can admit that the smell of that awful fucking room hit me like a freight train, but for Dexter that doesn't make any sense. “You're a fucking blood analyst. All you do is blood, and you're telling me it was the fucking smell?”

“That's what I'm telling you.”

I glare at him. I don't even fucking want to respond to that.

“I'm fine. Honestly, Deb.” He clears his throat again, pushes off the van. “Now I've gotta go back up there, help supervise Masuka.”

“You shouldn't go back in there,” I say, shifting to put myself between him and the back of the van.

“I'll stay in the hall,” he says as he moves to go around me, then starts to climbs up. I half want to reach in and pull him back out, but he's disappeared inside.

Mother fuck me.

I glance around angrily, note that Masuka and the rest of the suited geeks have disappeared from the parking lot, probably already up in the room. Uniforms are keeping well away from us, and LaGuerta and Doakes are standing by his car, beyond the tape and well out of earshot.

It's effectively just the two of us here and yet he can't say a quiet word to me.

I listen to him rustling around in there, try to take a cleansing breath.

Maybe it just isn't the place or something. Maybe he just needs some time or something.

I exhale the breath. I wish I believed that.

A new, clean, rubber boot steps down next to the bloody one, and then Dexter hops out of the van, encased up to his waist in another suit. The rest of it just sort of flops at his back.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask. Maybe the cleansing breath wasn't deep enough.

He looks at me, his face already smoothing back to an unreadable mild. “My job.”

“After what just happened, you shouldn't be anywhere near that crime scene,” I say again, already knowing he's just going to ignore me.

“I grabbed a water bottle,” he says, holding it up and waggling it. I hadn't even noticed it. “I'll stay in the hall, but I have to go up there.”

I follow him as he starts walking back toward the hotel. I can feel Doakes and LaGuerta watching us. I puff out a breath.

“You said it yourself, Deb,” he continues, oblivious to my irritation. “I'm a blood analyst and Masuka's not trained to work that kind of scene.”

I already know I'm going to lose this. I know that before we reach the motel doors, but it doesn't stop me from planting myself between him and them. I reach for his arm and he stops. “You're okay?” I ask.

He just stands there, lets that fake-ass smile pull at his lips. “I will be after my stomach settles.” Maybe he thinks it's reassuring.

But he's so full of shit, and it annoys me that he won't tell me what about that room upset him so much. Because if there's anything I'm sure about, it's that he wasn't puking over bad bacon. “Alright,” I give up. “Go.”

He nods, shifts past me. “See you at the station.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, half to myself. When the door shuts I exhale, glare at an oil stain on the pavement. I almost want to go back up there, see the scene again so I can guess what it is that Dexter saw in there. The sight and the smell of all that blood hit me hard when we opened that door— hell, it even hit Doakes hard —but, out of everyone in Miami Metro, Dexter should've been the least fazed.

Yet he bolted from that scene like he ran across the Bloody Mary in there. Could it have been worse than it seemed from the entrance? How much worse could it be if there weren't any bodies?

I spot movement in my periphery, turn to see Doakes coming toward me. I can just see LaGuerta over his shoulder, phone pressed to her ear.

I guess I'll have to wait to find out.

Trying to put my brother out of my mind, I head for my partner and his scowling face.

 


	66. Those Bloodless Bodies

_ _

_Those Bloodless Bodies  
_ _Setting: “Seeing Red”_

* * *

For the second time today I'm watching a back as it moves away from me, but this time it's Rudy and I'm lying here on my bed with a rapidly deflating libido and a growing, sour taste in my mouth. And not because of the wine.

“Shit,” I hiss quietly, sinking down into the mattress. After a second I grab a couple more pillows, toss them unceremoniously on the floor. As they land, I hear the TV come on in the other room. _Dexter._

Somehow my brother's fucking up of my day has managed to bleed into my night. Not that he's aware of it. All my attempts at initiating some kind of dialogue have flown right over his head. Whatever it was that freaked him out about that room, I'll probably never know. As usual.

And it kind of irritates me that Rudy thinks he could get him to talk when I couldn't.

I turn on my back and glare up at the popcorn ceiling, at a clump that's always reminded me vaguely of that face on the moon. I can still smell Rudy all over the bed.

I went back up there, to the bloodbath crime scene, after my three hundredth interview with yet another pair of oblivious assholes. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle McFuck came back to the hotel after brunch and saw all the tape, were directed to me after saying they were guests, at which point they proceeded to waste some fifteen minutes of my life by ignoring half my questions while posing their own. After that I went back inside and upstairs, in search of my brother and maybe a few answers.

But when I got up there and followed the trail of bloody footprints to Room 103, all I found was Masuka and a ton of suited geeks. Dexter was gone— back to the station or some other point up fuck creek, I don't know. His absence was irritating, but while I was there I took some time to just stand and look into the room, the way I hadn't been able to before, when we first opened that door.

God, so much blood. Any hope I'd been entertaining that this was some weird sort of stunt done with cow blood or something was dashed when I asked Masuka if we were sure it's all human and he said yes.

The smell in there was unbelievable, like... tons and tons of iron. It almost reminded me of that hospital basement where I found Tony Tucci, between the smell of all those pipes and the bloody wraps around his stumps, but way worse. No matter where I looked, all I saw was red, soaked into the blankets and the curtains and the lampshades and the ceiling. The blood was so thick that it squished under the CSU team's boots as they walked around, photographing and collecting samples. It filled the room and pooled on the carpet almost like it had been poured out of buckets.

Buckets.

I turn on my side, drape myself across a pillow, something weird prickling across my skin. A thought had almost surfaced out of the imaginary slideshow of that red opera flipping through my head, but it's already gone, just out of reach.

 _Buckets._ ( _What about buckets?_ )

Something about that room. It was so... staged. Right there for us to find at the end of a long hallway, the door opened by a key that was mailed to the station in a jar of human blood.

Heat presses down my throat.

What did Dexter say when he burst out those doors? Maybe half a dozen dead, but no bodies.

( _Fuck_ )

I push up, stare into space.

The Ice Truck Killer left us five bloodless bodies scattered throughout the city, all set up in macabre little tableaux— body parts wrapped up in butcher paper and left like gifts. Half a dozen victims, all drained of blood. I'd never really thought about what he must've done with all of it, but I guess I would've imagined that he just let it go down the drain, the same way I've watched MEs do it at the morgue.

But what if he'd kept it?

What if Room 103 is soaked and streaked and sprayed in the blood of those dead women?

I listen to the TV in the other room, stare at the wood-paneled closet door. At some point there was probably a mirror there.

But why would he do that? Why would he keep it all to drench some shitty hotel room? Is there something significant about that room, about Marina View, or was it just a convenient venue for his latest... piece?

And why would he even fucking do it all?

Of course, I've had the same thought about all his scenes, all his victims. Why cut women into equal-sized, bloodless pieces? Why leave the body parts of his patsy scattered around the city? Why leave him alive for someone to find? For me to find. ( _did he really call me there?_ )

Why mail a key in a jar of blood to Miami Metro that opens a door to a bloodbath in a shitty hotel room? Because he's a fucking steaming mound of fuck, that's why.

I glance at my phone on the dresser. If it wasn't so late, I'd call Batista or Doakes, ask them what they think, though I guess even if it wasn't, I've got exactly nothing to back my sudden theory.

But Dexter, maybe I could...

I stop two seconds into pulling back the blanket, remembering that I'm still pissed at him.

Maybe I'll talk to him about it tomorrow. Or maybe I won't.

But now that I'm thinking about the Ice Truck Killer, I can't help but think about Tony Tucci, that trip down the basement hallway to find him blindfolded and bloody on that table; the autopsy I attended on my first day in Homicide; finding Cherry on ice in the Panthers' goal.

This sick fuck's been haunting me for months. I was so relieved when it was over, when we finally corned Neil Perry and stuffed him into the back of a patrol car. I've been waiting for him to leave us another scene since Dexter told me that Perry recanted, but this is far outside what I'd been imagining.

Maybe I'm wrong. Miami breeds a lot of sick fucks, and I've been seeing the ITK everywhere: see, Valerie Castillo and all my theories. Someone else could've done this, though it beats the fuck out of me how anyone could've killed half a dozen people and dragged them out of there without leaving so much as a drop of blood in the hallway; without leaving behind any skin or brain matter or hair or whatever; without anyone catching a glance. It's true that the hotel's got crappy security, but it'd take time to move that many corpses. The receptionist and the rest of the staff would've had to have been chain-smoking at the entrance for an hour to miss that, and Doakes and I talked to everyone who was working last night. No one's missing, and no one saw anything.

I slowly sink back onto my side, stare at the reflection of the drapes in the mirror.

Something tells me that I might be right about this. I don't know why he chose to resurface now and like this, but I think he did.

And if I'm right, I can't help but wonder what else is coming.

I glance at the mirror again, wishing Rudy would turn off the TV and come back in. As annoyed with him as I am over this whole Dexter... whatever, I wouldn't mind having a distraction from all the shit running through my head. But I'm not quite desperate enough to hunt him down.

I exhale, listen to the TV. The sound of it kind of annoys me too.

Well, whatever. The only solution to this shithole of a day is to sleep the rest of it away.

I shove my arm under the pillow, pull the blanket up to my shoulder. Close my eyes.

Wait for sleep.

 


	67. Second Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some borrowed dialogue.

_ _

_Second Choice  
_ _Setting: “Seeing Red”_

* * *

I gnaw on the granola slowly, my elbow propped up on my desk, the bar pressed against my lip. I tap the mouse with my other hand, stare at the screen.

The Marina View Hotel's website was completely useless beyond telling me that it opened in August of ‘01. My next stop on the internet highway for some information on the property was at public records. Before Marina View was Marina View it was the Palmetto Palace, which as far as I can tell was under the same owners and just went through a major reno and a name change. Prior to ‘93, it was the Sand Dollar Inn, and before that it was a different building altogether, basically a boating warehouse that was later demolished and built over for tourist housing.

Barely anything's happened in or around the property for the past forty years, at least as far as the police records are telling me. I'd been hoping for... fuck, I don't know what I'd been hoping for. Something violent and splashy that might relate somehow to the current killings, but more and more I'm starting to think that my theory that the hotel held some sort of significance to the ITK is bunk. He probably really did only select it for its shitty security and the fact that Room 103 was framed at the end of a hallway. But I should've guessed that, since as far as we know none of the other scenes meant anything either and trying to guess future locations for Tucci's body parts just turned out to be a waste of time and resources.

My gaze slides right, hits Doakes' desk. My partner's out meeting some numerologist about that number. Clearly, if the hotel itself doesn't mean anything, 103 does. Is it really that Bible verse? Or was he just jerking us around again by sticking that bookmark there? Before today, none of us had even considered a nutsack-y religious angle to all this, and I'm still not sure where I'm sitting. When I asked for his opinion, all Doakes gave me was a grunt. I'm still not sure if Doakes even buys that this was the ITK.

I look down at my desk, at the sea of papers and folders that's slowly been spreading out and multiplying across it since I sat down.

But I'm sure. I looked through every fucking crime scene photo and every fucking report for all the past ITK scenes. No evidence of 103 or anything religious anywhere. Maybe we just never noticed, but for as many scenes as there were and for as many cops who've been on this case, someone would've accidentally caught a picture, would've noticed something. So if this is a new thing, then why now?

Or is he screwing with us again by having us waste resources chasing a number and a nonexistent religious motif while his atheist ass is out selecting another victim (or fleeing the state)?

I put down the half-eaten granola bar, pick up the photocopy of the sketch we got today. Stare at the sunglasses and the flat-combed hair, like I've been doing on and off since it landed on my desk.

Gloria the laundry chick stopped Doakes and I on our way out of Marina View after our revisit to the bloodbath scene and told us that she remembered passing “someone weird” in the hall outside Room 103 a couple days ago. We brought her in to have a sketch done, and several hours later she produced this.

It could be anyone: that guy who lives across the hall from me and that other guy who lives one floor up, one of the guys who runs the roach coach out front, the Unibomber. Hell, it could be Dexter. Or Soderquist. Or Rudy.

But it's the closest we've been to seeing his face since this investigation started. And I can't stop looking at it, wondering who's under those glasses.

After a beat I toss it down, look back up at my screen and the compressed list of police records for the Marina View property. I'd been so sure when I'd pitched my theory to Doakes. Now I'm gonna have to tell him that I've wasted hours of my time and probably should've joined him in his interviews. Though I'd be surprised if the numerologist gave us anymore than jackshit.

Sighing, I ex out the window, start shuffling through the papers and tucking them back in their folders, my thoughts still hopping around: Tucci in the hospital basement, that fight I'm responsible for with Rudy, Cherry all chopped and piled up on the ice, Dexter and his inability to see me as someone he can talk to, all that fucking blood soaked and splashed and streaked all over that hotel room, how quiet Rudy was this morning when we separated for work...

I pick up the granola bar and bin it, feeling aggravated with myself, aggravated at Dexter, who isn't even here for me to be annoyed with in person. I was an asshole last night for getting pissed at Rudy for showing concern. I don't know why it made me so angry ( _but I do know why_ ). I shouldn't have let something so small fuck up our night, and it's my fault he's... I don't know if he's angry or upset or what with me, but I've been through this too many times with too many other guys to want to let this fester.

Because for once I actually kind of give a shit.

For once maybe it wouldn't kill me to be the one to reach out and apologize.

I stare down at the neat stack of ITK folders, at that sketch sitting on top of it. Under it are about a thousand glossy pictures of gore and dead chicks, Tucci's body parts.

And, honestly, after all the fucked up shit I had to see today, I could use a bit of company.

I reach for my desk phone and dial, lean against the receiver as I set my elbow on a folder. Listen to it ring. Try to figure out what to say. Settle on direct.

And after the fourth ring, he answers, “Hey. Where are ya?” He doesn't sound annoyed. Good sign?

“Still at work,” I reply. “Chasing a lead.”

“Let me guess. The bloodbath case.”

Of all the things I don't feel like talking about. “Can we not talk shop right now?” I don't wait for a reply. “Baby, I am so sorry. You were totally right. I was mad at Dexter and I took it out on you. You wanna come over and talk?”

“I'd love to, babe, but, um...” He exhales into the phone, “I'm about to eat diner with Dexter.”

Something hot and familiar stabs through my chest. I feel the smile slide off my face, and for a protracted second I say nothing, because the impulse to bite off his head is overwhelming. When he doesn't continue, I say, “Well, after.”

Inhale. “Yeah, but, here's the thing.” Another stab. “Um... I think I'm gonna sleep at my place tonight. I mean, it's closer and I'm drinking, you know? You understand, right?”

Anger surges up my throat, loud and irrational. I swallow it, utter a, “Yeah.”

“Call you tomorrow,” he says, and then he kills the call.

I set down the phone and blow out a breath, press my fist into my cheek.

I can't fucking believe it. ( _fucking Dexter_ ) He's with my brother. ( _that fucking fuckface_ ) I don't know what's more surprising: the fact that he went or the fact that Dexter let him into his apartment. _(when was the last time I've even been over did he invite him or did Rudy just show up?_ )

I get up abruptly, walk over to the break area. I need... fucking something.

When I yank open a random cabinet I find a half-eaten package of Chips Ahoy. Bingo.

I pull out the whole tray, push back the plastic wrapper and shove a cookie into my mouth as I turn and lean back against the counter. Grind it like the thing is responsible for today.

Fucking... I don't know.

I grab another cookie.

I guess I should be used to it. Dexter's always been the center of attention, since we were little. It was to him that Dad's friends were always attracted— his cop buddies, the Roberts, Camilla and Gene Figg —and I was forever on the outside. Maybe it was because I pulled away while Dexter always stays put, but sometimes I just couldn't stand the way they all talked about him and his perfect grades and his perfect trajectory through life, making me the rudderless delinquent in comparison. And Dad... sometimes it felt like to him I barely existed. ( _even though I'm his real, blood daughter and Dexter was_ )

I grab another cookie. Eat it. It's not a tenth as good as a cigarette. A hundredth as good as ten cigarettes.

But to have Rudy go over there, for him to have fucking... reached out to my brother. Professionally he's always out-shined me, probably always will unless I somehow find a way to climb the ladder here ( _maybe if I ousted LaGuerta_ ), so I can live with it when everyone at the station runs to him for an opinion. But my boyfriend choosing dinner with Dexter over me?

( _Fuck_ )

“You might want to take a breath.”

I refocus on reality, gaze snapping onto a hat and a floral shirt.

I hold out the tray to Batista, deciding to ignore his comment. “Want one?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Who do you think bought it to begin with?” He stops by the coffee machine, pops it open and takes out the old filter, which he tosses in the trash. “Want any?”

“Sure,” I say. Guess there's no reason to go home yet. “How's your case going?”

He grabs a new filter and sticks it in the machine. “I'm off it as of tomorrow. LaGuerta believes your case belongs to the Ice Truck Killer, wants me on board. There's gonna be a hurricane of shit heading in our direction once it gets out to the press that Neil Perry isn't our guy.”

I start on another cookie, most of my thoughts still simmering over Rudy and Dexter. “Can't wait to see the press release.”

“Same,” he agrees as he fills up the pot. “So what's got you sticking around late tonight?”

“Your company isn't enough?” I dodge the question, then finish the cookie. “What about you?”

He grins back at me as he straightens. “Wanna get some work done before I go out. You interested in joining?”

“Nah.” I shake my head, shift the plastic wrapper back a little farther.

“Your loss. But, since you're here,” he continues, pouring the water into the machine, “why don't you bring me up to speed? Unless you're leaving after the coffee?”

“Nope.” I grab another cookie. “Wanna order take-out?”'

“You mean that's not your dinner?” He gestures at the tray.

I scowl at him. “Fuck off.”

He grins. “Hand me one.”

I reach over and give him the cookie I'm holding, lean back. He eats it as he turns and spoons pre-ground coffee into the filter, shuts it, hits the button.

For some reason the gurgling sound of the machine is instantly reassuring. I take a breath and put down the tray, feeling slightly more relaxed.

Then Batista opens his mouth again, “So everything alright with you?”

“Just...” I trail off, not wanting to go there again. “Can we just stick to work?”

“No problem.” I guess if anyone would understand right now it'd be him. “Hand me another cookie.”

“Take the tray.” I hold it out.

He does, leans against the counter opposite me. As he pulls out a cookie, he asks, “Would you want a pizza?”

Shitty cookies, pizza, and a handful of cigarettes. Sounds like the perfect night to a perfect day. “Sure,” I say.

“I'll find a number.” He grins before turning and opening a drawer filled with take-out menus.

Watching him dig through it, I feel some of the tension fall away. I'm a lot more thankful for Batista's company than I'd tell him, because as stupid as it is to admit, it's nice to have someone who isn't running off to go be with somebody else. And even though Batista barely knows me, he still talks to me, which is more than I can say for my own brother.

( _what the fuck are they even talking about over there_ )

Exhaling, I push myself off the counter, move to join Batista in the menu hunt, because I sure as fuck am done thinking about that.

 


	68. Commingled

_ _

_Commingled  
_ _Setting: “Seeing Red”_

* * *

I pull open the door, let momentum shut it behind me as I head down the hall, eyes burning. I don't run across anyone as I head for the bathroom, nor do I hear footsteps from behind me. ( _why did I even fucking let myself entertain the thought that he might follow me and apologize?_ ) When I finally reach the bathroom, I shove inside, stop at the sink. Thankfully there's no one in here.

“Goddamnit,” I whisper, curling my fist on the counter. I sniff, grind my molars into each other. I can't believe I let him do this to me. I don't know why I let him do this to me.

“ _They were porterhouses.”_

I want to punch him in his goddamn fucking impervious face.

Over the years we've... maybe not grown apart but at least grown separated. Before I started in Homicide I maybe saw him once every two weeks unless I happened to come down to this station for some reason, or unless I was coming specifically to see him. I can hardly remember him ever coming to see me, and I can't even fucking remember the last time we did dinner, just the two of us, on his suggestion. Sometimes I used to worry that he... I don't know, that not only does he feel that distance but that he created it. I barely know anything about him, and he barely knows anything about me anymore unless I'm the one to bring it up.

Working here under the same roof has brought us closer together than we've been in a long time, but he's still so goddamn far away, still so oblivious. If I didn't know better, if I hadn't grown up with him, his silence might almost feel malicious.

And I know he's just being him, but really? 'Deb, it's hard for me'? That's all he's got? He apparently wasn't finding it so hard to talk to my boyfriend last night, and I saw the way they were chatting it up in front of the elevator.

I can't even fucking believe Rudy went there last night. I can't believe he hasn't bothered contacting me since I called, and I can't believe all I got when he was here earlier was a wave. I'm used to most of the people in my life revolving around Dexter, but my own boyfriend?

What the hell did they talk about last night? I can't believe Dexter would ever open up to a virtual stranger, but then again what the fuck do I know? Maybe it's not that he doesn't want to talk. It's that he doesn't want to talk to _me._

I inhale, half-choke on it. My eyes are stinging, but no tears. Yet.

It makes me so goddamn angry, so fucking _angry._ He doesn't give a shit, he really doesn't. I come to him with the best of intentions, just wanting to be there for him, and he blows me off, and when I come back looking for an invitation to conversation, all he's got to say to me is that it's hard for him and he's got to go.

No apology, no promise for a rain check, no “what about tonight?”, not even an excuse. Just... nothing. As usual. And he doesn't even have the decency to follow me out of the room. I'm sure he's still in there, consolidating all those bloody tools before he heads out to meet Rita.

I don't factor in. I never have. Dexter's world is Dexter's alone, and I don't even know where I fit into it. Or if I even fit into it.

A strangled sort of half-sob escapes my mouth, and I look up to glare at myself in the mirror.

And the pathetic thing is he's all I've got. I used to have more friends, in college, through the Academy, on patrol, but they all pretty much fell away when I joined Vice. Maybe it was the hours. Maybe it was just how I felt about myself, acting like a street walker every day. Either way, I stopped reaching out. Sure, I've still got people I could meet for a drink, call for a favor, whatever, but in terms of family... I can only really be open with Dexter and the ever-revolving door of boyfriends.

I don't know what to do about Rudy.

Does Dexter even give a shit about me?

I try to put a blocker on the spiral, clear my throat. Sniff. I can't do this. It's 11 o'clock in the morning and we're in the middle of working an investigation. As far as Doakes and everyone else knows I went to go ask Dexter something. What would they think if they knew I was hiding in the women's bathroom, crying?

( _so fucking pathetic_ )

Fuck me.

I turn on the sink, wash off my hands just to do something, lean in to check my eyes. Just a little red. It might look like I had a sneezing fit or something.

I turn off the water, clear my throat.

None of this really surprises me from Dexter— maybe that's part of the problem —and normally I could've swallowed this as just another act of benign insensitivity. Really it's the fact that Rudy blew me off to spend time with him. He's been wanting to meet my brother since I first mentioned him, and the second they meet he feels he's built a connection.

Maybe jealousy is shitty and petty, but when it comes to Dexter I can't fucking help it anymore. My whole life Dexter's outshined me, and I can't fucking stand the thought that _my boyfriend_ wants to put him over me.

And it hurts to be put aside. It hurts even more coming from Rudy.

Because for some reason I care about him, in a way that I usually don't. He's been the first guy in such a long time who I feel like I could actually talk to about my day, where it doesn't need to just be nights of casual hook ups with maybe some take-out in between.

Why would he do something like this? Why now?

For all I know, he's planning to do it again...

I have to stop.

I glance at myself in the mirror again before striding purposefully out of the bathroom. When I get to my desk, it's just as I left it, stacked with everything related to the ITK. I look between my inbox and my blotter and my monitor as I approach it, but that random, tiny hope that Dexter might've thought to leave me a note or something is quashed pretty rapidly.

Setting my jaw, I turn. Dexter's office seems to be empty, but Masuka's over there in his station, gaze stuck to a microscope.

I head over there.

“Any progress?” I ask when I stop beside him, glad my voice doesn't sound quavery.

“Good morning to you too,” he replies, not looking up.

“Don't fucking start with me,” I growl. “What's going on with the DNA tests? Can we confirm this was the ITK yet or not?”

He finally looks up. “Doakes was here five minutes ago asking me the same thing.”

I'm going to kill him. “And now I'm asking. Don't fuck around with me. Just talk.”

He sighs. “Blood's all commingled. Getting a court-sound lab report is pretty much not gonna happen, but we're having better luck with some of the samples from the walls.”

I'm absolutely going to kill him. “Please, just tell me if we know if this was him.”

“Tentatively,” he says, then pushes off the table, rolls in his chair to his desk, where he reaches for a folder. He holds it up, and I take it, flip it open to see a whole crapload of shit I don't really have the patience to understand. “We've got three matches to Sherry Taylor,” he explains before I have to ask, “one to the Jane Doe, two to Tami Burgess. Rest is still in processing. Probably will be for the next two months with all the blood we carted out of that room.”

I don't give a shit about the forensic issues. Only one thing he just said really matters. “So you're telling me this was the ITK?”

“Unless someone else got a hold of his victims' blood and decided to fuck up our lab queues.”

“Shit,” I mutter. Not that I wasn't already sure.

As I turn to go back to my desk, I hear Masuka from behind me. “A little thank you?” Maybe because I'm still in a shitty mood I just ignore him, keep on walking. But instead of my desk, I head to Doakes'. The sergeant is clicking through his computer, brow furrowed.

“Hey, you got the bulletin from Masuka?” I ask.

He nods as he looks up. “Guess you and LaGuerta were right about your theory.”

“At least we don't have to spend the day digging through every report that's been filed in the past couple years.” I exhale. “But I spent the night trying and retrying to find 103 or anything the fuck else to help steer us onto a path.”

He leans back. “I've got a preacher coming in in twenty minutes to go through that verse with us. After that some fucking genius mathematician out of UM. This number has to mean something to someone.”

“Unless it's some sentimental shit.” Or unless it means nothing.

“Yeah, I'm not exactly holding my breath.” His gaze slides back to his screen.

I exhale. “I'll go back to digging.”

He nods, and I walk away, finally plop into my chair.

For a second I just sit here, thoughts boomeranging back to Dexter and Rudy now that I'm not talking to anyone. All that hurt is brimming just below the surface, ready to start pushing up and out of my chest if I give it the time.

So I blow out a breath, reach for a folder.

Get back to work.

 


	69. Just Out of Reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technical note, the end of “Shrink Wrap” (the girl Brian Moser was chopping up) was never addressed in the show, which is why there's an extra victim here. Also, this scene's mostly aimed at answering why Deb didn't seem pissed at Dexter in “Truth Be Told.”

_ _

_Just Out of Reach  
_ _Setting: “Seeing Red”_

* * *

I flip through the report again as I sit down, read off the names: Tami Burgess, Rachel Lewis, Cassandra Mendoza, Sherry Taylor, our still unidentified Jane Doe. Masuka was in late last night working on processing the hundreds of DNA samples that were taken out of that hotel room, and so far we've got over thirty matches to the ITK victims.

And three additional matches to a second Jane Doe.

I stare at those little bars. I'm not entirely sure what they mean, but the only part of it that matters is the column below it. We've got a sixth victim's DNA, and no body.

Briefing's in a half hour, and I've already talked to Doakes about this. We barely have a path to proceed with the bloodbath scene, let alone another victim. No body means fuck all: no prints, no face, no teeth, and her DNA's not in the system.

I push my hair back and exhale.

What the fuck do we do? Can we do? We haven’t even gotten anywhere with our first Doe in all this time.

I flip through a few pages, glance at everything again. I hadn't really thought we might discover another victim in that lake of blood, and I'm not sure what it means that we did. Was she his first victim or something? Did he make a mistake on her? Why else wouldn't he have set out her body like he did the others?

Now I'm wondering if there may be others in that room, waiting buried in the forensic backlog to be discovered. None of us really believe that the five we discovered were his first victims, or even his second or third— there's something way too damn calculated about those scenes, about how carefully he dissects them —but we all believe that Tami Burgess was the start of the Ice Truck killings.

So who the fuck is this? Are we wrong?

“Hey.”

I look up to see an open box being held out to me, up further to see a pair of vaguely earnest eyes centered on mine.

“Want one?” Dexter asks.

I glance from him to the doughnut box, lips pursed. I haven't spoken to him since I confronted him in his little blood room yesterday, and I don't really feel like breaking the silence yet. “No thanks,” I say.

“You sure?” he asks. “There's a couple jelly doughnuts, a bear claw, think even an eclair...”

I cut him off, “I'm not hungry.”

He slowly closes the lid, looks down at me. For a beat he just stands there, and I wait for him to either speak or go away. I know the doughnuts are his way of trying to smooth things out, but after everything that's happened this past week he's going to have to do a lot better than a fat stack of trans fat and sugar.

“Can we talk for a second?” he says finally, to my surprise. From his tone, I gather he doesn’t mean here.

“Yeah,” I say. I push up from my seat, abandoning Masuka's report and the wagon of horse shit that came with it on my desk to follow him into his office, where he shuts the door behind me.

I cross my arms and say nothing. I feel just as hurt as I did yesterday, and I'll be damned if he makes me speak first.

He stands there awkwardly, still hugging that stupid box of doughnuts, and then the moment passes, and he clears his throat, puts it down. “I'm sorry,” he says.

All that hurt swirls around my chest. And?

“I know you're mad and it's my fault.” He leans against his desk. “But, Deb, I didn't call Rudy over the other night. He just knocked on my door.”

“That's not the issue here, Dex.” I can't believe he still doesn't get it.

“It's not?”

I inhale, shake my head. “Were you even fucking listening to me yesterday?”

His brows dip. “Of course I was.”

“Well, fucking apparently not.” I let my arms slip down. “You always keep me at arm's length, and, you know, fine, whatever, that's just you being you. But you find out some fucker up in Dade City was your blood father and you barely have two words to say about it. Two days later you're fleeing a crime scene like you saw the fucking antichrist in there, and you have even less to say.”

I pause, and he doesn't attempt to interject. Just keeps on standing there like the dumb fuck he is.

I take a step forward. “And, I mean, fuck, maybe I'd think you talk to Rita about this shit, but I talked to her when we were up at that house, and she feels just as in the dark as I do. If you're not talking to me and you're not talking to her, I don't know who the fuck you go to with your problems.”

He shrugs helplessly. “I don't go to anyone.”

“And I fucking believe that. You spend more time off by yourself than anyone I've ever met, always so concerned about keeping things private, dealing with everything alone. But, Dex, I'm right here— I've _always_ been right here. I don't know why you treat me like...” I search for a phrase, “like your life is none of my business.”

He gets off the table. “I don't...” He trails off, starts again, “I don't know what to tell you. I've just always been this way.”

I glare at him, feeling way more raw than I want to, feeling pissed for having been pushed here again. “And I know it'd be too much to ask you to change.” I don't bother trying to keep the venom from my tone.

“Really, I'm sorry, Deb, but if you want the truth...” He trails off again, glances away. “Honestly, I don't know what to think about Joseph Driscoll, but I still trust Harry. He must've had a reason for telling me Joe was dead, and that's good enough for me. And as for the bloodbath scene, really, nothing happened.”

I set my jaw.

“Really,” he repeats.

Something shifts inside me. I'm not sure if I believe him or if I just want to. “This isn't just you pushing me away again?”

He shakes his head. “I'm not trying to hurt you, but I can't change who I am.” He pauses, but I don't fill the silence. I don't know what to say. “Would it help if we did dinner, maybe sometime next week?”

“What's wrong with tonight?” I can't help myself.

“Well, you know, everything going on with Rita and Paul.”

Damn him. He always has an excuse. “Just give me a day.”

“I will.” He pauses again. “You're okay?”

Another shift. Maybe I am being unreasonable. With him, anyway. “Yeah. Are you?”

He flashes that smile. “Same as always.”

Not that I really have any idea what that means, but I can let it go. “I'm holding you to that dinner, brother.”

“Got it. Dinner. Sister. Next week.”

I can feel some of the pressure in my chest draining away. I'm still hurt, but I can forgive him. Dealing with this kind of shit is what family does. I sigh, “I'll see you at the briefing then.”

“Yeah.” He nods.

I almost want to hug him, but I resist the urge, just open his door and step out, head back to my desk. He comes back out as I take my seat, his doughnut box in tow. Masuka takes one, and then my brother comes back around to me.

“You sure you don't want one?” he asks.

Despite myself, “Fine.”

I can see from his grin that he knows he's won out and I've forgiven him, and it kind of annoys me, but I reach in anyway, pull out a jelly.

I watch him walk away for a beat, the sugar already melting onto my fingertips, then I reach into a drawer and pull out a napkin. Take a bite. Set it down.

My gaze drifts back to Masuka's DNA report, at the second Jane Doe.

ITK is officially back open and, as far as I know, I'm still on it. Everything's leveling out with Dexter.

But Rudy...

I scowl, pick up the doughnut again.

He fucking better pick up the phone, and soon, coz I am not not gonna be the one to reach out to him. My brother may be an oblivious fuck, but Rudy knew what he was doing when he hung up the phone the other night.

And I just can't take that kind of shit anymore.

“Morgan.” Doakes' voice calls my attention. I look up to see my partner standing there, his hands conspicuously doughnut-free. “Time for the briefing.”

I grab the DNA report, stand up. “Right behind you.”

I fall in-step with Batista as we head to the meeting room, eating the rest of my doughnut and trying not to think about Rudy anymore. Right now there's the more pressing issue of the ITK, this damn mysterious number, and our new, non-corporeal Jane Doe.

 


	70. Heat of the Moment

_ _

_Heat of the Moment  
_ _Setting: “Truth Be Told”_

* * *

I snake my arm around Rudy's as we push through the station doors. As they open, a small crowd of reporters hanging around the parking lot looks around, but after catching sight of the two of us, they rapidly lose interest, go back to doing whatever they were doing.

Perk of being low rank and a relatively new face in Homicide: with this stupid-ass grin on my face and the bouquet, Rudy probably looks more like a cop than I do. And for once I couldn't give less of a shit.

I feel hot, and my heart is pounding from the admission. Of everything I might have expected to come out of his mouth, an “I love you” was a mile off the list, and it hadn't even entered into all those imaginary conversations I've had with him these past two days. And yet... it feels like truth.

I smile as I glance up at him.

I don't know what I was so upset about. I overreacted, got jealous and petty, like I always do when it comes to Dexter. But he never actually went anywhere.

“Whose car?” I ask as we pass another news van. ( _Everyone wants a piece of Matthews today_ )

“Mine.” Rudy points to it, parked a bit down the lot.

I nod and bump into him. The contact and the smell of him makes me hot all over, makes it almost hard to breathe. Two days is too long. We've known each other barely a month. What the fuck are we doing, saying we love each other?

 _But I think I meant it..._ ( _Did he?_ )

We kiss when we reach his car, so suddenly I barely even know who initiated it, and I set the bouquet behind me on the roof of the car as he pushes me into it. Hands and heat and want. My stomach does backflips. His lip is bleeding but he doesn't seem to care, and it’s disgusting but for some reason I don’t care either.

“We could fuck here,” his voice is low and suggestive in my ear. “Right in the parking lot outside the police station.”

That almost sounds like a great idea. “We could do that,” I hear myself saying. I almost let two whole days pass without this.

He grins and moves back in to kiss me, arching me back against the car. Some random, stupid thought presses between the tongues and the breathing. “No.” I pull away just enough to say that. “I can't. I work here. There's a group of reporters fucking standing right over there.”

“They don't care about us,” he says.

But the thought is there, and it's fucking annoying. What if Doakes hasn't left yet? What if Matthews finally comes out? What if Masuka's watching us from out the window with a pair of binoculars and his hand down his—?

“No,” I moan again, hating myself for it.

“Come on.” He reaches past me, pops opens the door. “Right here under their noses.”

“That's the problem,” I say, but he's steering me and I'm not really making an effort to stop him. Because I don't want to. Because it feels like it's been forever and he's all I want and I close my eyes as we kiss and suck and touch and then I'm landing on the back seat and he's landing on top of me and I'm dropping my jacket and my purse on the floor. Shit.

“This isn't a good idea,” I insist. Weakly. Waves and waves of heat. I reach for him and pull him back to me as he's popping buttons.

“This is a great idea,” is the reply.

My apartment and my bed seems like it's on the other side of the country. I'm working off his tie. Fucking in the backseat of a car, like fucking teenagers hiding from Dad, _what the fuck are we doing_ ( _why don't I care_ )?

I finally get the stupid tie off, and it lands somewhere, and then I'm reaching for more buttons, tearing them apart, desperate for the skin underneath. And finally they separate, and I run my hands down his undershirt, across his chest, down, down... didn't pop enough buttons. I reach for another.

He suddenly grabs my wrists, shoves me further into the car and pins me down. I realize my shirt is open and I don't know when that happened but it's just my shield around my neck now and my gun is digging into my back and he's kissing me again and he tastes like blood and I...

The phone rings.

My phone.

Fuck.

“Ignore it,” he says. Must've felt that temporary hitch.

“Uh huh,” I murmur, wishing he would give me back my hands but kind of not caring either. And just as I think that he releases me, turns around and shuts the door. I sit up and slip off the holster, toss it down on top of my jacket. When I lift the cuffs off the belt, he grins at me, and I grin at him, but toss them down beside the gun. As I reach to pull my shield off my neck, he stops me.

“No, leave it.” He reaches for my bra, starts tugging at it.

It suddenly feels extremely, urgently important that I get his shirt off, get his goddamn pants off. “Okay,” I manage, struggling for leverage. All the while the phone rings in the background, annoying as fuck.

The bra finally loosens, slips off as I'm pulling at his pants. We start kissing again as he pushes me flat, reaches for my own pants. They're already open. _When did that happen?_

The phone rings again. Just as soon as it stops.

“Fuck,” I say.

“Ignore it,” he insists, pulling at the fabric over my hips.

“It could be important,” I say. I don't know who it could be.

“It isn't.” My pants are coming off. My entire body is on fire.

“I...”

His hand slips down, across my skin and under fabric and—

I gasp and arch backward, thoughts going white. Fire shoots across my skin, eats away anything that isn't his fingertips and our breath.

“Fuck.”

“That's what we're doing.” His voice seems to float somewhere in space, and then his fingers are moving away, working my pants the rest of the way off.

The phone keeps on ringing. I'm reaching for his pants again, absolutely desperate to get them the fuck off. Finally he helps me, starts shifting them down, and suddenly he's on top of me again and I can't even fucking think anymore and his hands—

The phone starts again.

“Fucking cockfuck suckafuck.” Awareness slams back, and I reach for my purse, dig around, finally pull out my phone as Rudy groans on top of me. “Fucking what?” I answer.

“It's Doakes.”

Something cool and rational trickles into my head. “Oh,” I say stupidly. It's been three seconds since he left. What does he want?

“Why the fuck aren't you answering your phone?”

“I'm off-duty.” Rudy shifts, starts pulling my pants the rest of the way off. Down to my ankles. My boots are still on.

“Not anymore. You need to get over to 313 Northeast 1st Street. Right now.”

“The fuck I—”

“Angel's been stabbed.”

His words hit me like a bucket of ice water. I sit up. “What?”

“I don't know all the details. I'm still en route. But we need to get over there right fucking now.”

“Is he okay?” I ask. It's suddenly hard to breathe again, but for entirely different reasons. “What happened?”

“I told you I don't know. LaGuerta called me.”

A sudden, horrible thought. Distantly, I realize Rudy has gone still. “Is he—”

“He's not dead,” he cuts me off. “That's all I know, Morgan. It was in the parking garage. Just fucking get there.”

“Yeah. I'm on my way.”

He clicks off.

I pull my phone away, stare at it. My heart is pounding in my chest. Angel was stabbed.

“What happened?”

I look at Rudy. “Uh, it's Batista— one of the cops I work with. He was stabbed.” I just stare at him for a beat, trying to process. “Fuck, I have to go.”

“Is he okay?” he asks.

My clothes are everywhere. I locate the bra first, sit up and put it back on. Fuck. “I don't know,” I echo Doakes. “I don't...” I trail off as I hook the thing, reach for my shirt and slip into it, start buttoning. Jesus. Angel. What the fuck happened? I was just saying good night to him an hour ago.

Rudy sits back against the seat, blows out a breath. He's pulled up his pants but is still otherwise undressed. I don't...

“Shit,” I mutter, finally pushing in the last button. I pull my shield out from under the shirt, then half sit up, pull up my pants, rebutton them. Twenty seconds ago I couldn't wait to get them off while Angel was lying bleeding somewhere. Shit.

“You alright?” Rudy asks.

“I don't know.” I reach for my gun and cuffs, open the door. The air feels slightly chillier than it was inside the car. I step out into it, re-secure my shit on my belt, then reach in for my blazer and my purse. I have to go. Why would somebody stab him? How could someone have surprised him? He's a cop, for fuck's sake.

Rudy follows me out, his shirt half buttoned, tie gone. “Will I see you again tonight?”

“I don't know,” I say again, shrugging. My mouth is dry. God I hope he's okay. ( _He was just here_ )

He gives me a small smile, “Go. You should be there for your friend.”

“Yeah, I have to...” We kiss goodbye, but all the heat is gone. I'm still trying to process.

Forty seconds later I'm unlocking my own car door, throwing all my shit inside, getting into the driver's seat, turning over the engine. Everything mechanical. Why didn't Doakes tell me more? What happened? Who would mug a cop? It's only as I'm pulling out that I remember that I forgot Rudy's flowers, but it's too late to turn around.

And then I'm shooting down Biscayne Boulevard, my lights on and my siren whining, and people are getting the fuck out of my way. Northeast 1st is like five minutes from here. I hear other sirens. Cops from all over the city are probably converging at the parking garage. Doakes didn't say anything about having a suspect in custody...

Shit. He's my friend and the best I've got is “he's alive”?

My heart pounds as I fly down the road. In my rearview I see a patrol car following me. Worst case scenarios flit through my head.

A clump of flashing blue and reds attracts my attention, and I make the turn, roll down my window as I slow next to a patrol car. “Where is it?” I ask the uniform inside.

“Second floor,” she says.

I nod and roll on through, flip off my siren. My chest is tight. I feel like I'm entering a homicide scene, but as far as I know Batista didn't die here.

( _as far as I know_ )

I spot cops cordoning off an area the second I pull up to the second floor, and I park randomly, already seeing Doakes standing next to Soderquist beside a car that looks like Batista's. My heart jumps in my chest when I see it. Shit.

I kill the engine and leave my car, shifting my gun on my back as I walk to my partner, hoping he's got good news. “How is he?” I ask when I get within earshot.

“He's in surgery,” Doakes replies, working his jaw. “LaGuerta's with him.”

“Good,” I murmur, for the first time in my life feeling relieved to know that LaGuerta's doing something. My gaze finds Batista's car again, then slips down, hits on the enormous pool of blood drying on the pavement just beside it.

_Shit._

My stomach lurches. Shit that's a lot of blood.

“Shit,” is what leaves my mouth.

“No cameras,” Doakes says. “No useful witnesses, unless Angel saw something.”

“Who found him?” I'm still staring at the blood.

“Couple tenants.” I look up to I see him point toward two guys in gym clothes behind the tape, standing with Ramos.

“How long was he lying here?”

“They said they came out just as he fell.”

I finally meet his gaze again. “So they saw the horsefucker who did this?”

“They said he was wearing black and a ski mask.”

I shift and shake my head. “That's just fucking great.”

He pats my arm. A rare show of affection from my normally stone-cold partner— I don't know if it makes me feel better or worse. “We'll catch this sonovabitch. Angel saw something. And even if he didn't, we'll have the geek squad combing through this garage until they find something.”

“Dexter?” I ask. And of course it would be him, with all this blood. Batista's blood.

_Shit._

“Yeah.” His phone rings, and he pulls it out, glances at the caller ID. “LaGuerta,” he says, then steps away to answer.

I find myself shifting forward, toward the blood. For some reason I think of the bloodbath scene, other bloody crime scenes. But this is different. Batista's my coworker, my friend. I was talking to him an hour ago, and now his blood's all over the pavement of this smelly, dirty parking garage.

And Doakes is scared. The special ops guy who never blinks.

Shit.

I force myself to look away, turn my gaze to my partner instead. He doesn't look anymore upset than he was before he answered that call, so it must be good news, or no news, at least.

I take a breath, flash him a wane smile.

Wait for him to hang up and tell us what we're doing tonight.

 


	71. Waiting Room

_ _

_Waiting Room  
_ _Setting: “Truth Be Told”_

* * *

I hate hospitals.

The thought recurs to me for the twentieth time as I stand out here with an orderly and Ramos and some other guy, sucking on my second cigarette. We got here from the parking garage fifteen minutes ago, and I lasted in that depressing, airless waiting room for about five of them before I asked the orderly who's currently standing across from me where I could catch a smoke. The guy's name's Josh. He seemed to sense the lack of give in my tone, told me to follow him out here.

The air out here's not really helping me breathe, and not just coz I'm inhaling tar. I compulsively avoid hospitals for the same reason I've always compulsively avoided sick people— reminds me too much of bedside vigils, first for Mom, then for Dad. Mom was in and out so much that I feel like I must've spent every other weekend when I was a kid waiting on scratchy vinyl chairs for her to come back out. And then the visits turned to residency. And then she never left her bed again. And then I never saw her again.

I blow out smoke, shift my footing.

For Dad it was more sudden. We'd known for awhile there was something wrong with his heart, but after his last surgery there was a long stretch of time where everything went back to normal. And then one day he collapsed, was dead before midnight.

And I was there, was falling asleep curled up in that shitty chair when he coded. The doctors weren't even able to shoo me out of the room before he was gone. I'll never forget that moment.

And having to tell Dexter what happened after that... I remember Matthews was in the waiting room. I cried on his shoulder.

Inhale. Exhale. The butt glows gold.

The day Mom died, no one was there except us. Everyone who wasn't there for her when she was sick finally showed up at the funeral to give their platitudes and their eulogies. I hated all of them for it, but now I get it: there's no way I could've stood there watching her waste away like that if I'd been any older. Having to watch her waste away every day for months was a special kind of hell.

But Batista ending up here so randomly hits a different nerve. The fact that you might get killed on duty, for doing what you’re doing every day, eventually fades into the background, stops being a persistent thought. Until it doesn’t. Maybe one day you'll turn a wrong corner or make a wrong decision or just not notice something, and then six of your closest friends will be hauling your fucking flag-draped casket down a hill. We still don't have the slightest idea why someone went after Batista— it might not even have had anything to do with his badge —but every cop here is tense anyway. And not just because we don't know how the surgery is going.

And Batista's daughter's in that waiting room.

The cig's almost down to a nub, but I give it one last pull anyway.

Dad never got injured on the job, but I still know what it feels like to sit there, not knowing, worried. Dad's job got a little less cool after Mom died, and most mornings, as I watched him drive away from dropping me off at school, I’d wonder, briefly, if it would be the last time I'd see him. At the time it never occurred to me that I'd end up losing him to something much more mundane than a bullet.

Shit, I hope he gets out of this okay...

I still can't quite get over the fact that I was _just_ speaking to him, and now he's lying on a table with a bunch of surgeons and LaGuerta and his ex-wife watching over him. I’m not even sure if they’re really divorced. Shows how little I know.

The cig's dead.

I push it into the little silver bin, debate pulling another out of my purse, but the idea's lost its appeal. Maybe coz of Mom.

So I take a breath, turn to go back inside. Head down the hall, past rows and rows of rooms, trying to ignore the smell of antiseptic and air freshener and floor polish.

Doakes and a couple cops are sitting around the waiting area when I get there. My chair's still empty where I left it and my blazer. I glare at the stupid floral wall paper for a second before reclaiming my seat next to my partner.

“You stink,” is how he greets me.

“Fuck off,” I reply automatically, not in the mood for another one of his sermons.

A pair of young eyes flit up from their coloring book, land on me. And so do a few of the adults'.

Goddamnit.

Instead of looking at Doakes again, I purse my lips, stare at nothing in particular.

Think about Angel and that big pool of blood on the pavement, the way the whole scene was being treated like a homicide scene— just in case it turns into one. Think about my parents. Think about Rudy and the ‘I love you.’

I feel like an asshole for sitting in a hospital waiting room thinking about that, but I can't help wishing he was here. And I'm still not even sure what it means that we said that to each other. Did he say it so I would forgive him, or does he really mean it? And if he does mean it, does that mean there's some future here, with us?

Because right now I could see us lasting. Maybe. Is that what he wants?

Is that what I want?

My thoughts slide back.

Now that I'm sitting here I'm starting to feel sick again. How fucking long does it take? Did something go wrong? We were at that scene for a couple hours before we finally left, and he was in surgery before we even got there. In all that time, not one fucking “he's okay”?

Maybe I should go out and have another cigarette.

Maybe I shouldn't.

I want to call Rudy and ask why he said what he did, but before I do I should probably figure out why it came out of my mouth too.

Why would somebody have stabbed Batista? In his own parking garage?

Without the knife or security footage or a description, do we have even the slightest chance in hell of finding this gutless fuckpail?

Fuck I miss Rudy's company right now.

The thoughts start looping. Back and forth, Batista, Rudy. Time passes.

And suddenly there are more people in the room. I look up to see Dexter and Masuka. My brother makes eye contact with me, says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” I say back. I almost want to get up and hug him, but then he takes an empty seat against the ugly wallpaper, just out of reach. Masuka plops down next to him, looking uncharacteristically glum. Somehow, that makes this whole fucking situation seem infinitely worse.

I glance down at my watch. It's been a half hour since I last checked, and still nothing.

Neurotically, I wonder if he might be dead.

At the thought, I get up to grab one of the shitty magazines sitting on the table across the room. I don't know how much longer we're going to be sitting here, but I need something else to think about before I lose my mind..

I've barely even grabbed the thing when Yale walks into the room with a pizza box and a couple of big gulps in a cardboard cup holder.

For a beat I don't move. Then I tuck the magazine under my arm, go for a slice of pizza.

 


	72. Valium Headache

_ _

_Valium Headache  
_ _Setting: “Truth Be Told”_

* * *

Ugh...

A cogent thought pierces the haze. A full second passes before I finally hear what woke me up, but it's another before I remember what moving is, and how to do it. Rolling over, I reach down off the bed for my purse and the source of the noise. By the time I realize it's not there, my head's fucking pounding.

_EEE! EEE! EEE! EEE!_

Where the fuck is it?

( _maybe the Valium wasn't the greatest idea_ )

_EEE! EEE! EEE! EEE!_

When I sit up my head threatens to explode all over the bed, but through my sudden, keen desire to lay back down and die I pinpoint my phone's location on the nightstand, sitting just beside my gun and cuffs. I force myself over there, grab the thing, kill the alarm.

Silence. Sweet fucking silence.

I slouch here holding my phone for awhile, gaze landing on a hundred, vaguely fuzzy, foreign entities. Rudy's bedroom. I have no idea why it took over a month for me to come here. Something about my place has always seemed easier, closer, more comfortable.

My head keeps pounding. Suddenly I remember why I'm here to begin with, Batista and that smelly fucking parking garage, last night's endless loop of crappy thoughts. But right now all those feelings are too loose and nonspecific, sifting out of my consciousness like sand as my brain keeps slamming itself around my skull.

_I'm never fucking taking Valium again..._

“You're up.”

I turn around on the bed, see Rudy sitting on the couch with his laptop over the table that separates the bed area from the kitchen. For some reason I find myself thinking that the way this studio is broken up doesn't make any sense.

“Barely,” I reply. I pinch the bridge of my nose, screw up my eyes against the headache. “You got a fucking Excedrin or ibuprofen or something?”

“In the bathroom.” He sets his laptop down and stands up. “I'll get it for you.”

“No, I can do that.” I start to shift toward the end of the bed. As I do I see all my clothes strewn around on the floor where I lost them last night. The only mess in an otherwise painfully tidy oasis.

“Don't worry about it.” He's already in the bed area, and then he's opening what I can only assume is the bathroom door and stepping inside. As I hear him start to rummage around in there, I slide, painfully, off the bed, start locating clothes. Underwear, bra, pants. Shit, I'm gonna have to drive home and change. Can't go to work like this.

I dump everything on the bed, sink back onto it after shimmying into my pants. Put on my camisole, slip into my shirt. _Fuck, my head._

“Got it.” Rudy plops down next to me.

I open my eyes. My head hurts so much I don't even care about water, just take the pill from him and swallow it. “Thanks,” I grin at him. It's nice to see him sitting there, through the pounding. “And morning,” I reach over and pull him toward me for a kiss, run my hands up his skin. He's not wearing a shirt. I'd almost regret getting dressed if I wasn't so aware of the time.

So I pull away, but not very far. “So what was it you wanted to talk about?” I ask, suddenly remembering last night’s almost conversation.

He just smiles at me. “I told you,” he says. “I want the time to be right.”

“Time feels pretty right right now,” I counter. The cryptic shit bothers me.

“Nope.” Still with the grin. “Just say you'll sail away with me.”

I make a face. “You know I can't, with all this shit with Batista right now.”

He tips up my chin. “Just think about it.”

“I am thinking about it.”

“Think harder.”

“Rudy—” He swallows whatever I was going to say with more kisses.

And then he's up and moving away, before I can pull him back to continue pressing. “Want coffee?” he asks.

“No,” I say, not wanting to fight with him over this but still wanting to know what the fuck it is he wants to talk about. Because since when did 'We need to talk' preface anything good?

My head's still pounding. I start buttoning my shirt. I need a shower and my toothbrush. I glance out the window, see the palm fronds there all melted into a singular sort of glob. Need my contacts too.

They're sitting on the nightstand in their case. I barely remember taking them out last night. I’m kind of surprised I even thought to take them out last night.

Go, me.

Rubbing my head, I get up, grab my blazer and throw it on the bed, then reach for the case and pad over to the bathroom. It's as spotless in here as it is in the rest of the apartment— reminds me of using my brother's bathroom. Everything's like a museum; everything's just fucking so. In comparison, my place kind of always looks like a hurricane's gone through it. Wonder if it drives Rudy as nuts as it does my brother to be in my mess...

I splash water on my face, note all the make-up I never got around to washing off last night. Rub some of it off with a tissue. Check that as another thing to take care of when I get home.

A minute later I'm walking back out. Rudy's migrated with his laptop from the couch to his desk, but his eyes follow me as I head back to the bed to pull on my boots. “What?” I ask finally, stepping into the first one.

“Just watching you,” he says.

I smile slightly, brow dipping. “Why?”

“I want to see what you're doing.”

I snort and pull up the zipper. “Alright.” Settle my pant leg over it. Start on the other one. Finish with the other one. Stand up and strap on my gun and cuffs, clip my badge to belt. As I grab my blazer and purse, it occurs to me that my brain's not slamming itself against my skull with quite the same enthusiasm as before. Thank fuck.

I walk over to the kitchen, all ready to go and not really wanting to. Rudy gets up as I do, meets me a few steps from his desk. But before either of us say anything my gaze slides right, lands on that weird, industrial door that's dividing the two halves of the kitchen.

“What's in there?” I find myself asking.

He looks where I am, clears his throat. “Uh, just the breaker and the water heater. Use it as storage too.”

My brows furrow. “Kind of weird to have a whole room for that in a studio.”

He shrugs. “Didn't design the place.” And then he's steering me away from the door. I don't even remember him grabbing my arm. “So I gotta go out of town tonight after work.”

“Where're you going?” I roll with the change of subject, already losing interest in the door.

“I'll tell you all about it this weekend.” He smiles at me as I exhale, then reaches behind him, picks up the bouquet he got me yesterday off the coffee table. “Here, you left this with me last night.”

I take it from him. “You know I can't promise anything right now.”

“Just think about it. It'll be a great time.”

“Yeah...” I let myself trail off. It does sound nice. I don't know, maybe a day or two away wouldn't kill me. Assuming I could even go right now. “Thanks for taking these back.”

Another smile. “They're for you.”

I head for the door. “We'll talk about the weekend thing later, alright?”

“Count on it.”

I open the door. The kiss goodbye seems to last awhile, maybe coz it's sinking in that I won't be seeing him tonight. I wonder where he's going, why he doesn't want to tell me about it...

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

“Tomorrow. Or lunch, maybe,” I reply.

He nods, and then I'm heading out the door and back to my car. When I get there I stick everything on the passenger seat, sit here for a second and feel my head pound. It's lessening. Sort of.

_Fucking Valium..._

I turn over the engine and pull away. I've barely gotten down the block when my phone rings.

Fear lances automatically through my stomach. It's still a few hours until I need to be at the station. I wonder if something happened to Batista. I reach for it. “Morgan.”

“It's Doakes.” He pauses, and I brace for bad news. “It looks like the ITK struck again.”

I didn’t brace enough for that. “What?” I say.

“Yeah. At Santa's Cottage on Biscayne Mall. Apparently the motherfucker left her body gift-wrapped under a tree. Couple of the elves found it.”

“Shit,” is all I've got. “You at the scene?”

“Leaving soon. This is all we fucking need.”

“I'll be there as soon as I can.” I pause. “Any word on Batista?”

“Haven't gotten any calls. No news is good news.”

“Yeah.” I don't really feel relieved though. Another chopped-up dead girl, just a handful of days after that bloody hotel room. Wrapped up under a tree.

Jesus.

“See you at the scene.”

“Yeah, see you.”

He clicks off. I toss the phone onto my seat, slow down for a red light.

Another fucking ITK scene and we're one detective down. The shit never stops coming.

I sigh. That weekend with Rudy is looking farther and farther away.

 


	73. Potluck

_ _

_Potluck  
_ _Setting: “Truth Be Told”_

* * *

_He wants to be part of the family._

I stare blindly at... something— the police record on Monique Santos that got her so quickly identified off her fingerprints —but I'm still back in that hall with my brother two and a half hours ago, endlessly turning over what he said.

_He wants to be part of the family._

_Rudy wants to fucking... propose._

_To me._

_Fucking marriage._

_Fucking mindfuck._

It never even occurred to me that that was what this whole weekend thing was about. All I could think was that he wanted to end it. But marriage? We only just exchanged I love yous, and even that seemed soon. We've known each other less than two months. Why would I have thought of that? Things have suddenly progressed at light speed.

_But fucking marriage?_

I still haven't replied to his text. I'm almost glad he's away tonight, off wherever he is. I don't know what I'd say. I barely even know what I'm feeling. Elated, but confused, but mostly elated? What the fuck is he thinking? He's never struck me as the impulsive, romantic type. We were fighting (or just not talking) a few days ago, and suddenly this?

Is this just a move for commitment? Is this what he thinks I want?

Or did my brother misinterpret? I'd trust his insights from a crime scene, but not from a personal conversation. He’s got the social intelligence of a parrotlet. ( _But how could you fucking misinterpret wanting to be 'part of the family'?_ )

 _I want to say yes._ ( _I think?_ )

I can feel my heart thumping in my chest. If I wasn't trapped in this station over the weekend between the ITK and Batista, I'd at least be able to tell him I can take off this weekend. But even if I didn't have work as an excuse, I don't know that I'd have picked up the phone yet. Having that kind of conversation is as terrifying as it is alien. I’ve been in fucking train wrecks before, moved in with a couple guys I thought I had something with but didn’t, even made the mistake of signing a lease once, but this is different. Completely. I never really got caught up in some pluralized future with them. I was always just a little too distracted by my constant drive to get into Homicide to think that far ahead. But now?

_Fucking marriage?_

“Here.”

Something small, plastic, and white lands on my desk. The shift to reality is like a pan to the face.

“You need some more Christmas cheer, Morgan.”

I look up at Masuka. When I came in this afternoon after the scene at Santa's Village, there was Christmas shit everywhere, including a plastic tree on my desk. When I asked where it all came from, no one knew. Then Masuka walked in a half hour later with a big, wooden reindeer and one of those shitty Starbucks Christmas spiced frappuccino things and my question was answered.

I stare at the stupid little snowman. “What is that doing on my desk?”

“I checked the list and noticed you haven't signed up to bring anything for the Christmas potluck,” he says.

“Yeah, along with half the station, I'm sure,” I reply. The thought of most of the guys in this station participating makes me snort. “In case you haven't noticed, we've all been a little busy.”

“Hey, I'm still processing DNA from Marina View on top of all the stuff we collected this morning, and that's just on your case. You know how much crap they pulled out of Batista's smack lab?”

I make a face. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

“A lot,” he answers anyway. Then he shifts the snowman so that it's looking at me. “Come on, Morgan. It's your first Christmas in Homicide.”

It's always weird when he sounds reasonable. “If I say yes will you go away?”

“Yeah.”

“Then go. And take your snowman with you.” I pick it up and hold it out. “There's no fucking room on my desk right now.”

He takes it from me, looking offended. “No room on your desk, or in here?” He points at my chest.

I glare at him. “I will shoot you.”

Finally getting the point, he turns around, but instead of walking away he raises his voice to address the whole pen. “Remember to sign up for the potluck, people,” he says. “So far I've only got a couple of names and nobody's bringing food.”

No one looks up. Ramos utters a “Yeah” that could be directed at him.

Apparently satisfied, he slinks back to his den. If he thinks I cook he's out of his mind. Bean dip? Chips? Tequila?

_It's Christmas not a taco party..._

_He wants to be part of the family..._

I can't go there again.

“FPL get back to you yet?” I call over to Doakes, who conspicuously had no reaction to Masuka's speech. I wonder if he's going.

“They received the warrant and are going to get back to us,” he replies, eyes on his monitor.

I can't imagine he cooks. “So tomorrow?” Maybe steaks?

“Yeah.” He looks irritated, but no more than usual. “You hear back from any of Monique's family?”

“Not a peep,” I say. I still hate leaving cryptic messages on answering machines, and I can kind of understand the usual lag period for a call back— if it were me I'm not so sure I'd pick up the phone immediately. But at this point we're desperate for a lead and my patience is running on the thin side. Though, “Fuck knows they probably won't be anymore helpful than the other victims' families,” I say.

“Yeah, well, with any luck your theory'll pan out and we won't need them.” A rare, predatory grin spreads across his face. “The net's closing on this sonofabitch. He made a mistake leaving us that VHS.”

Jesus that was awful. “Overconfident piece of shit,” I mutter.

He nods, then gestures at his screen. “See the ME report?”

“Yeah.” That was one of the things I was looking at before I zoned out over Dexter's words. “Zilch again.”

“We'll catch a break.” I'm surprised at the confidence in his tone. “Just keep at it.”

“Yeah,” is all I've got to say. When I glance at my own screen it's to see the ME report, still open and scrolled to page six. Except for the missing arm and the change in set dressing, she could practically be a carbon copy of the other victims. It pisses me off that we've never gotten a thing off any of these girls. And now we've watched this latest one die on tape and she still couldn't give us shit.

Her head was in a fucking wreath...

I exhale and look down, shift aside the police records on Monique to go back to work on my scene report. Over forty people were at the mall this morning near the crime scene, and not one of them saw a thing. I have about as much faith in the cameras as I did for all the cameras at all the other scenes. Guy's a fucking ghost.

But a ghost with a huge-ass custom refrigeration unit. He can't be quite so invisible to the city power grid.

Busy work for tonight. But tomorrow we're getting those records. Tomorrow we're going to nail this cocksucker's ass to the floor, I just have this feeling.

I reach for a pen. Before I've even clicked down the top, my desk phone rings.

 _Rudy?_ ( _shit I'm scattered_ )

“This is Officer Morgan,” I answer.

“Hello, I'm Emanuel Santos,” a tiny voice replies. “You left a message at my house earlier about...” quiet for a beat, “about my daughter, Monique.”

“I did.” And now I feel like an asshole for thinking about my boyfriend. I shift forward, lean my elbows on my desk as I start, “Mr. Santos, I'm afraid it's bad news...”

_Your daughter is dead._

_And I'm the one who has to tell you._

 


	74. An Hour and Counting

_ _

_An Hour and Counting  
_ _Setting: “Truth Be Told”_

* * *

“I'll see you soon,” I practically squeak in excitement, before lowering my phone to kill the call and flip it closed. Doakes is still standing by the board, and I'm hyper aware that that 'stupid-ass grin' is still plastered across my face as I walk over to him, but I don't really care.

“I gather you wanna take a break?” he asks, not looking overjoyed about it.

“Yeah.” I shove my phone back into my pocket. “Not right now, obviously. But soon.” I pause. “It's just an hour.”

He shifts, arms crossed, “We can spare you.”

“Great.” I'm still grinning.

“We've been going at this all day,” he continues. “Could all use the break anyway. Let's just finish what we're doing.”

“Yeah, of course.” ( _an hour at the docks_ ) “Hell, I could just meet you down at the canvas site instead of coming back here.” ( _he rented a fucking yacht_ )

“Yeah, that'd work...” he trails off. “Alright, I’ll bite. What are you so goddamn happy about?”

I haven't told anyone. Haven't even gotten to talk to Dexter about it again since he took off yesterday— every time I've seen him today he's been rushing away.

Ah, fuck it. I don't want to keep this to myself anymore. I lean in a little closer to Doakes, lower my voice, “I think Rudy might be inviting me out tonight to propose.”

“Propose?” he repeats, looking at me like I said it in Hungarian or something.

I make a face. “You could try acting a little happy for me.”

“You're serious,” he says. “Hasn't it only been like a month?”

“You douche.” I almost want to smack his arm but catch myself before I do. “I never said I was going to say yes.”

He glowers at me. “So what are you going to say?”

“I don't know, Mom.” I sigh, take a mental step back. “I know it hasn't been that long, but I feel happy with him— safe, you know? Not sure I'm ready to skip right to the picket fence and two and a half kids, and I'm not even sure that's something I really want, but some kind of commitment? I'm more than ready for that.”

“Pretty big leap between wanting some commitment and merging assets,” he says. Not that I would’ve expected a congratulations from him.

An image of myself in a wedding dress pops into my head. Rudy in a tux. It’s so ridiculous I don’t know what to do with it.

“Hey, don't poop all over my parade,” I protest. His points aren't really popping any bubbles. I thought about this a lot last night while I wasn't calling Rudy— that's _why_ I wasn't calling him, why I never replied to the text, coz I didn't want to ruin all the romanticism. ( _and I still want to see if he'll actually do it if he'd actually propose I still want to hear those words come out of his mouth_ ) It is moving way too fast. We can be together without being legally pronounced.

Yet.

( _but jesus do I want to hear him say it I was starting to feel like I'd never find a guy who'd even want to be with me that long who I'd even consider being with that long_ )

I refocus, realize Doakes is still looking at me and I've been silent for a beat. “Look, I don't know what I'm going to say,” I say. “But could you dig deep and at least pretend to be happy for me?”

A tiny, almost smile. “I am happy for you,” he rumbles.

“Yeah, how could I have missed that?”

Another glower, but at least this one seems more put on than not. “Let's just finish up here so you can go.”

“Yeah.” I gesture at the board and the little markers. All the approximate addresses for residences drawing a lot of power FLP sent us— apparently our warrant didn't cover specific names and apartment numbers. “Got a few out in the Gables and Coral Terrace, Little Havana, West Flagler, but my bet,” I tap the rightmost side of the map, “we'll find this prick around here. We've got a couple addresses in Coconut Grove and Brickell. Two of the ITK scenes were right nearby.” I gesture at them, their locations practically hardwired into my brain from months of staring at their files. “And here,” another tap, “that's where he picked up our last victim.”

I exhale, stare at the map, the fruit of hours of work. One little orange dot stands out to me in particular— Rudy lives right within it. It's the one in Brickell.

For the third or fourth time since we put down that marker, I hope that's one we can cross right off the list. It's too fucking creepy to think he lives right next door to him or something. And maybe that's the other reason besides victim proximity that I want to nudge Doakes toward having us take that canvas.

But I'm not gonna tell him that.

“Well, then let's take these two.” He points to the Brickell and north Coconut Grove markers, as I hoped he would. “I'll put Soderquist and Yale on these.” His finger travels south. “Pullman and Ramos can take the two in Coral Way. Nothing pops, we'll move on to the rest. Whatever happened to the downtown addresses?”

“Total fucking crapshoot,” I say. “Got a couple hundred people living in their radius, but FLP won't give us anything more specific.” I was playing phone tag for at least forty minutes before finally getting someone who told me they couldn't do anything.

“Well, we can try applying for another warrant tomorrow if all these don't give us anything.” He waves at the board.

“Yeah.” I'm still looking at that little orange peg where Rudy lives. “So where do you want me to meet you?”

“Brickell,” he says. “It's closer. Shit knows traffic's gonna make getting anywhere right now a pain in the ass.”

Shit. For some reason I hadn't figured that into my hour. It's just a short hop across the bay to Miami Beach but who knows how long that might take.

“Well, I'll see you in an hour then,” I say, suddenly feeling even more eager to get the hell out of here.

“An hour,” he echoes. Skeptically.

“Yeah. Can't wait to finally catch this fuck.” Almost as much as I can't wait to get over to the marina.

With that I turn around, grab my purse off my desk, scoot off toward the exit, open the door for the stairs. My heart's bouncing with nervous excitement as I head down them. Is Rudy really going to propose? Half the night I was imagining how he might do it. It kept getting dumber the closer I came to sleep, finally ended somewhere around him sitting on a fucking unicorn under a cloud of butterflies.

( _even if this is all moving just a little too fast I just want to see if he_ )

I reach the bottom of the steps, half jog through the lobby and out the double doors, ignoring all the weird looks. I couldn't give less of a fuck about them; I just can't wait to get there. I can't remember the last time I was this excited. Maybe when Matthews told me I landed the transfer to Homicide.

Finally I reach my car, toss my purse in, turn over the engine. In a minute I'm pulling onto Bayside.

LaGuerta's being moved into the pen, everything's back to normal with my brother, and Rudy is ( _probably_ ) gonna propose.

( _fucking propose_ )

( _to me_ )

( _fucking marriage_ )

( _what the fuck_ )

I'm almost giddy as I make the turn to merge onto the highway, though as I speed up the ramp I can already see the sea of bumpers and red lights ahead of me. Directly between me and where I need to be.

_I've got a whole hour. That's enough time. We have enough time._

_A fuckload can happen in an hour._

 


	75. Black

_ _

_Black  
_ _Setting: “Born Free”_

* * *

I stare down into black water. It's so close. I could almost reach it.

I could... _It'd be quicker..._

( _and then he couldn't)_

( _oh god oh jesus oh god oh god fuck oh god please god_ )

The raft compresses under my chin. I stare down at black water.

_I can't._

( _oh god oh christ I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die_ )

Drowning. Fucking... sinking to the bottom. I couldn't fight it. I can't move. Once I fall in that'll... I won't be...

( _how long does it take?_ )

( _how long will I breathe water?)_

I'm too terrified to move. I can't. Every time I shift so does the life boat, and I'm leaning half off the edge already, can feel the water spray my face.

I see myself wriggling in the water, arms stuck together, sinking, fucking sinking, no way to get back up, drowning in ice cold ocean water.

I'll wash up in a few days. Some tourist will find me. Everyone in Homicide'd be standing over my corpse. Hog-tied in silver tape. Missing my boots. Eyes eaten by fish.

( _but it'd be better than dying like the others_ )

( _that fucking VHS I watched her die oh god oh fuck he hung her upside down and cut her_ )

( _oh god oh god oh fuck oh jesus oh fuck_ )

This is my only chance. He left me here on this raft. ( _he's going to move me_ ) My lips are taped together. No one would hear me anyway.

Except the fucking sea gulls.

And a pale band is moving up the horizon. ( _my last sunrise_ )

( _oh god oh jesus I'm going to die_ )

I can't let him do that to me. I can't die that way. I can't. _I can't_.

( _he chopped them up into pieces he hung them up like meat_ )

( _jesus christ I'm so fucking stupid so fucking stupid how the fuck didn't I realize how the fuck am I this fucking stupid_ )

( _So desperate to fall in love_ )

I scream into the tape but it's muffled and all I can hear are the waves and those goddamn fucking gulls and the water is turning pale and I'm still staring down. At the water. At my only way out.

But I can't move.

( _oh god oh jesus oh god I don't want to die_ )

( _I don't want to drown_ )

My heart is pounding against my ribs. Every time I pull against the tape the boat bobs. It could throw me in. Just tip me off. I wouldn't even have to...

( _oh god_ )

Bile burns up my throat. My neck feels swollen where he choked me. I can still feel his arms around my neck. I can still...

( _I let him do that I walked right onto the boat I just fucking sat there_ )

( _he wanted me to figure it out he wanted me to know all those goddamn flowers and lights and that fucking expensive champagne it was all a show a goddamn display just like all his crime scenes_ )

( _why the fuck did he fucking bother with all that shit why the fuck didn't I get off the boat_ )

( _how did I never fucking notice_ )

( _So desperate to fall in love_ )

It's going from pale to gold.

I don't know when he's coming back. He left me here half under the shade of a dock. Invisible to anyone above. If there even is anyone up there.

I don't know how long I've been lying here. I don't know how long it's been since I shifted over the edge of the raft.

I'd had the courage then.

It fled when I looked down.

_I can't fucking do it._

An endless slideshow. All those dead girls. Cold and bloodless and chopped up and dead.

_And dead. And chopped up. He cut them into pieces._

_He fucked them and cut them into pieces._

( _he hung her upside down_ )

( _butchered them like cattle_ )

( _he's going to do that to me_ )

( _he's going to fucking kill me how the fuck was I so blind how could I be so fucking stupid so fucking desperate_ )

I scream again. I can feel the tape move over my lips as I start yanking and pulling, but my legs are taped in several places and there's just fucking nothing I can do.

( _I'm going to die helpless and screaming and alone I'm going to die I'm going to die oh god_ )

( _how could it all have been a lie how could I be so fucking dense_ )

A gull flies by, lands in the ocean, tucks in its wings. I've never hated anything more in my entire life.

 _Help me, you fuck!_ I want to scream at it, but it comes out garbled. I can't talk. I can't move. All I can do is wait for him to come back for me. ( _to butcher me_ ) All I can do is fucking sob.

The gull just fucking sits there. And far behind it, I see boats. None of them can see me.

My contacts burn in my eyes as I look down at the water again. I can feel the spray misting my face as the waves thunk against the raft. It's so fucking cold, but I don't know if that's the reason I'm shivering.

I think of the yacht fading into the black. Rudy and all those tools. That soulless fucking way he looked at me. I never meant anything to him.

( _his name's not even Rudy jesus christ he's a fucking serial killer how the fuck didn't I see the signs_ )

His apartment right under that orange marker back at the station. That weird fucking door in his kitchen. That's why he doesn't have a bedroom. He turned his bedroom into a goddamn fucking refrigerator. For his victims.

That night he gave me the Valium.

( _oh god_ )

The crime scene at Santa's Cottage. Dexter said it was rushed.

( _oh god oh jesus oh fuck_ )

While I was at the hospital waiting for Batista to get out of surgery, he was cutting that girl into pieces...

_And I came to his apartment._

( _oh god oh fuck oh fuck jesus shit fuck and I didn't even know they could've fucked in the bed I slept in on those fucking silk sheets for christ's sake_ )

( _he was Tucci's fucking prosthetics guy he fucking made him new limbs for the ones he cut off_ )

( _did he go and arrange her gift-wrapped body parts under that tree while I was passed out in his bed?_ )

When I woke up it didn't look like he'd ever joined me...

( _and we had sex_ )

( _oh god oh god oh god oh fuck no one on the face of this whole goddamned hellfuck of a planet is as fucking stupid as I am_ )

Suddenly I become aware that I'm moving. The boat is being pulled. I wrench around.

See him on the other end of the rope.

Terror lances through me. Terror like murder, terror like my heart's going to explode, like everything is burning white, like I'm going to die.

( _ **oh god oh fuck oh jesus oh god oh fuck oh christ oh god oh fuck**_ )

I start writhing uncontrollably, like I'm having a fucking seizure. I have to get free. I can't. I can't fucking let him take me. I can't. _I can’t_.

_He's pulling me closer._

_I have to do it._

( _but oh christ I don't want to die_ )

Something like a volt pierces my chest. I lunge for the edge, throw myself over it. I can feel the water splash against my face as the raft presses into my stomach. As I slip.

“Hey!”

Arms pulling me back. Just a little farther.

I kick and scream and twist and writhe. I can't let him murder me. I'd rather die in the water. I can't let him slit my throat.

“What the hell are you doing?”

( _oh god oh god just let me go you're going to kill me anyway just let me go oh fuck oh god but I don't want to die_ )

He picks me up and drops me back into the raft, rolls me over.

( _oh god oh god oh jesus_ )

I sob helplessly. I don't know what to do. I missed my chance. I was too much of a fucking coward. I had the time.

( _there's nothing I can do I did this to myself_ )

“Didn't take you for the suicidal type,” he says. His voice is so emotionless he could be talking about the weather. “Guess we're both full of surprises today.”

_Fuck you you goddamn fucking cocksucking fuck._

“Now, Deb, listen to me.” He's leaning right over me, blocking out anything that's not his face. “Listen to me. I'm going to cut the tape around your ankles and you're going to walk with me to the car I borrowed, alright?”

_The fuck I am you fucking piece of dog shit._

_Fuck you,_ is the best I can manage under the tape. Just un-muffled enough that I know he understood me.

A thin smile pulls at his lips. A white hot bolt of fear rips through my chest.

“Or...” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little pouch, which he unzips. He pulls out a syringe. At the sight of it I start bucking and twisting again.

“Would you stop?” He holds me down. He's enjoying this. This is fun for him. He doesn't give a shit about me.

( _oh god oh jesus oh fuck what is that?_ )

“I can just inject you with this,” he says it casually, waggling the thing in front of my face. “Either way, you're coming with me, but I'd honestly prefer you walk, so...” He puts it and the pouch back into his pocket. “What'll it be?”

 _Fuck you,_ I say again.

This time no smile, and my blood freezes in my chest as he reaches into his other pocket, produces a knife. He presses the button and the blade shoots up.

It paralyzes me. Kills the breath in my lungs.

He shifts down, pulls out my legs. I hear ripping, and then my ankles fall apart. I still can’t move.

( _oh god oh god oh god I can't let him drug me but I can't just go with him to the slaughter_ )

“Alright, get up.” He pulls on my arms, pulls me to my feet. My legs are jelly and the raft shifts under my bare feet. I collapse but he's holding me upright. “Come on,” he says, half dragging me up as he steps off the raft and onto the shore. I step onto wet gravel. The rocks shift under me, press into my skin. I can still hear all those fucking gulls, the lapping of waves.

“Here.” He pulls something out of his bag, drops them on the ground. I recognize them as my boots. “It's a bit of a walk, so...”

Something inside me cracks in half. Dies.

I howl, throw myself at him. I want to fucking kill him with my bare hands. I want to rip him apart. But of course my thighs are still tied together and my arms are trapped at my sides.

He catches me, throws me to the ground like a fucking sack of potatoes.

“Just stop, alright?” he says, squatting over me. “This is honestly getting a little pathetic. What do you think you're going to do to me right now?”

_You fucking bastard. You fucking shit-stain piece of fuck._

“Here, I'll put these on for you and then we're going to walk to the car.”

All I can do is sob as he pushes my feet into my boots. Helpless to do anything else. He's going to kill me. _I'm going to die today._

I hear and feel my boots zip up. He pulls my pant legs back over them. Smooths them out.

( _it's all about the fucking presentation_ )

( _they're all just canvases to him_ )

( _I'm just a canvas to him_ )

( _why didn't he just kill me the night we met_ )

“Alright, let's go.” He pulls me up again, but this time I don't do anything, just let him. The world is turning gold as the sun rises. I stand here, watch as he picks up his bag and slings it over his shoulder. If there wasn't tape over my mouth, if I had eaten anything recently, I'd vomit. As it is bile burns up to my mouth, washes back every time I swallow. I can’t get myself to move.

_I'm so afraid._

“Come on, up that hill.” He points toward the grass beyond the gravel, at a slope of palm trees. “It's not very far.”

Why is he so goddamn conversational? So goddamn normal? Nothing about him has changed. He's the same person he was two days ago when I...

( _when we kissed goodbye_ )

( _oh christ what have I done_ )

He pushes me forward, and I start hobbling, fucking pathetically. We reach the grass in a few steps, and then he's half-pulling me up the hill. I don't know why I'm letting him, why I’m not fighting tooth and nail. I feel dead inside. A massive fucking weight crushing all my organs.

( _like a fucking lamb to slaughter_ )

The path through the treeline is short, and he pulls me to a stop when we get to the end of it, so abruptly I stumble over a root. And then I see it. Parked about a yard or two away, in the middle of a small, empty lot, is a silver sedan. A Cadillac.

The gravity of what's about to happen to me hits me like an anvil. I start screaming again, kicking, thrashing, twisting, writhing. Anything. Everything.

( _ **oh god oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh god oh jesus oh fuck oh christ oh god**_ )

Rudy— whatever the fuck his name is, the Ice Truck Killer —pushes me forward, this time saying nothing. When we get to the trunk he shoves me against it, pins me there, then reaches for the latch.

( _I'm going inside_ )

( _and when I leave it it'll be to die_ )

I keep screaming, as loud as I can, as hard as I can. Someone has to hear me. Someone has to be nearby.

The trunk pops open.

I glance inside.

( _ **oh god OH JESUS OH FUCK OH CHRIST OH SWEET FUCKING CHRIST OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD**_ )

I rip away from him, kicked into a frenzy by the sight of the body. The blood. But he grabs me before I've gone a step, slams me back against the car.

( _ **OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD**_ )

He's lifting me up. I thrash desperately, like a fucking fish on a hook, out of my mind. Terror rips through me. I can hear myself screaming things through the tape but there's no connection anymore.

( _ **OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD**_ )

He drops me into the trunk, on top of the dead man. It smells like carpet cleaner. I roll off him, slam my feet into the side, so hard I feel electricity ripple up my bones.

“See you in a bit,” the Ice Truck Killer says.

The trunk slams shut.

And everything goes black.

 


	76. Helpless

_ _

_Helpless  
_ _Setting: “Born Free”_

* * *

I feel...

Heavy.

My...

Fuck, my head.

_So fucking..._

Heavy, I can't...

Breathe.

_Hard to breathe._

The thought connects. I open my mouth, but my lips don't part.

Can't part.

( _something's wrong_ ) Cold water trickles through my stomach. My head is pounding.

I'm laying on my back. ( _why am I laying on my back?_ )

Something tight around my chest, my legs, across my forehead. Wrapped around.

The cold's becoming a flood, but my thoughts are caught behind the dam.

My lungs are aching.

I force open my eyes.

To nothing.

It's dark. Pitch dark. My eyes hurt. Filled with paste.

( _why is it dark?_ )

( _why can't I breathe?_ )

( _why can't I open my mouth?_ )

I jerk suddenly, almost not even on purpose, but something crinkles and my arm doesn't move. Can't move.

( _oh god_ )

Something prickles across my skin. My head is pounding. Pounding. Pounding. I can't focus. I'm somewhere in space. 30 feet underground.

I try to move my arm again, my legs. But nothing. They don't move. And that sound. So familiar.

Something is holding me down.

Plastic?

And I'm naked.

( _oh god_ )

I'm trapped.

( _Rudy_ )

The memory cuts through the fog, smashes me back to Earth.

( _Rudy is the Ice Truck Killer_ )

The last however many hours suddenly crashes through the dam, surges through my body in a wave of electricity. ( _no_ ) That corpse in the trunk. Rolling next to me as I fried in the heat. ( _oh christ_ ) The yacht. All those fucking flowers. ( _I said yes_ ) His arms around my neck. Crushing the breath out of me.

( _oh jesus_ )

I'm laying here, splayed out and tied down and naked.

My heart thumps painfully in my chest. Something stings in my neck.

_He drugged me._

( _oh jesus oh god I'm going to die here_ )

My limbs feel dead as I force them to move, but I can hardly get an inch. My fingers brush against plastic. I'm encased from my hips to my thighs. It tightens against my chest every time I inhale.

The fog in my head is starting to clear. Panic is rapidly taking its place.

( _oh christ oh jesus_ )

That band is so tight across my forehead I can barely move my head. Fear and nausea ripple down my core. I have to get free. I can't just fucking lie here. I can't.

An unstoppable stream of images. Monique Santos hanging upside down, her blood gushing down her neck. Cherry on the ice, chopped into equal-sized pieces. Tucci in that basement. The smell of his blood and piss. Cassandra Mendoza in that empty pool, her head tossed away like garbage. The autopsies.

( _he cut them into pieces he left them out for everyone to see_ )

The dead man in the trunk. He flopped against me with every bump, every turn in the road. I could smell the blood leaking from his head as the heat boiled me alive. So much blood.

( _he cut their throats_ )

The haunted look in Tucci's eyes when I took the blindfold off. The way he gripped my arm like he was afraid I didn't really exist.

( _he bled them dry and froze them solid_ )

( _to keep them preserved in the Miami heat_ )

_No._

( _he paid them all to come to his apartment they never left but I just walked onto that boat_ )

_No._

( _all he had to do was make me think he loved me I swallowed the bait I ran to that marina I told him I loved him_ )

_No!_

( _I said yes_ )

_Fuck! **Fuck!**_

I thrash under the plastic, but there's no give. I can't move. I will never leave this room, wherever the fuck he took me. ( _I'm going to die here I'm going to die here I'm going to die oh christ oh sweet jesus_ )

I jerk my head. By some fucking miracle the plastic loosens, falls off.

But it doesn't matter.

I start to sob. The tape is tight over my mouth, pinches my skin when I try to breathe. I wag my head against whatever I'm tied to.

( _oh god oh christ oh jesus how could I be so fucking stupid_ )

I can already see it. He's going to leave my body piled on Miami Metro's doorstep, sectioned and bloodless and frozen and wrapped in brown paper.

( _oh jesus oh christ oh god oh god_ )

He'll leave the ring on my finger. He'll want everyone to know that I said yes.

Because it's all about the presentation.

( _oh god oh fuck oh christ_ )

How long have I been gone? Does anyone even know to look for me?

Doakes probably think I just took off with my boyfriend.

( _my boyfriend I said I loved him I said I would marry him oh jesus christ how could I not have seen it how could I have been so fucking desperate_ )

They won't know until he leaves me gift-wrapped for them to find. The Ice Truck Killer and the fucking moron who bought his every line.

( _why didn't he kill me the day we met why did he drag this out_ )

Will I even get an official funeral? How could anyone salute my coffin, drape a flag over it? Here lies Officer Debra Morgan: she loved the Ice Truck Killer. He didn't.

( _will they just pile me inside some clothes try to put me back together make me look like a person again_ )

( _or will Dexter have me cremated_ )

My eyes ache. The contacts have been in too long.

I can't even take them out. I'm so fucking helpless.

The sobs are turning hysterical. I can barely breathe. The tape keeps pulling on my skin.

( _I might suffocate before he even fucking gets here_ )

( _oh christ he's going to cut me into pieces he's going to bleed me dry he won't even let me scream_ )

( _it's just plastic it's just plastic why can't I tear it how the fuck can I be too weak to fight it_ _it's just plastic oh jesus_ )

_Is anyone looking for me?_

I keep jerking to reach for my face to wipe away the tears, to take out my contacts, to tear off the tape, but I can't move them. My fingers flex uselessly under the plastic. There's bands around my forearms.

( _why did he leave me here why am I just fucking lying here why didn't he just kill me what the fuck is he waiting for_ )

Bile burns a path up and down my throat as I swallow. All the adrenaline's making me light-headed. My skull still wants to explode.

( _why did he take me here why didn't he just fucking kill me on the yacht why am I lying here why do I have to fucking wait for him how long is he going to keep me here like this_ )

( _oh jesus christ oh fuck it’s just plastic it’s just fucking plastic_ )

( _he left me here in the dark a canvas waiting in a closet_ )

I'm starting to choke on everything gathering in the back of my throat. I'm going to suffocate, drown on it.

( _he'll get here and I'll be dead_ )

( _drowned in my own fucking tears_ )

( _bet he'll wish he hadn't waited_ )

For some reason I start laughing. Or crying. Fuck, I don't even know anymore. Fucking blind and tied down and naked and my eyes are burning and my neck is stinging and I can't breathe and I'm wrapped in plastic and I'm going to die.

( _I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die_ )

The tape is pulling and loosening every time I try to suck in a breath.

( _I'm going to die I'm going to die this is the end of my life this is how I'm going to spend my last moments on Earth I'm so fucking stupid I'm such a gullible fucking oblivious moron and he knew_ )

( _he knew the second he met me_ )

( _I'm nothing to him_ )

( _less than nothing_ )

Fuck, my head hurts. Fuck. _Fuck._ ( _it just hurts so much_ )

( _I'm going to die alone_ )

( _he's going to cut me into pieces_ )

( _I'm—_ )

I freeze. Sounds outside.

Panic rises up my throat, panic shoots down my core, through my limbs. _He's here._ ( _he's here for me_ )

( _oh god oh please oh please don't please jesus oh christ I don't want to die_ )

A door opens.

My heart is beating so fast it's going to explode. A second passes, and then suddenly light blazes through the dark.

I go blind in it.

( _oh christ oh jesus oh fuck oh please oh jesus oh christ please I don't want to die I don't want to die why are you doing this_ )

My head's going to burst. I hear something that sounds like screaming. Dimly, I realize it's coming from me.

My vision's clearing. I see him walking toward me.

( _ **oh christ oh jesus oh god oh god**_ )

( _why are you doing this why are you doing this how could it all have been a lie why are you doing this why are you_ )

“Would you stop? We're not even ready for you yet, alright?”

He's so close.

Terror tears through me, eats me alive, rips me apart. I can hear myself, feel myself thrashing, but I don't know where I am, don't know what he's saying, don't know what I'm saying.

( _why are you doing this oh god please please just let me go_ )

I'm staring up at him. He doesn't look any different. Still the same man I knew but there's not a trace of affection there. ( _was there ever was there_ )

He pulls something out of his pocket. I keep struggling against the plastic. I don't know what it is.

( _oh christ oh god this is it and I can't even fucking move I'm going to die here oh please god fuck_ )

( _please god please god please don’t do this_ )

He jabs something into my neck.

( _ **oh god oh god I don't want to die oh jesus**_ )

A thought connects.

It wasn't a knife.

( _I..._ )

It was a...

( _I can't thi..._ )

A...

Need...

 


	77. Plastic Wrap and Flip Flops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some borrowed dialogue

_ _

_Plastic Wrap and Flip Flops  
_ _Setting: “Born Free”_

* * *

Voices.

There's...

Something— _someone_. ( _someones_ )

That's wrong. ( _why?_ )

Heavy. So...

_Fuck, my head..._

( _voices_ )

So hard to... what was it that I was thinking... who was here?

( _I need to_ )

“...we can take this journey together...”

Too tired for a journey...

What journey?

Everything's so... so fucking heavy. ( _something I have to do_ )

I'm very fond of her... ( _but I already forgot who_ )

What?

( _why am I thinking about that?_ )

( _need to wake up_ )

( _something important_ )

Shouting. A tiny jolt.

( _wake up_ )

My eyes open.

To something coming down. Over me.

And...

( _Dexter_ )

I feel myself move. Or someone else. So much fog.

( _Dexter_ )

They're fighting. ( _can't think_ ) Dexter and Rudy. But he's not Rudy. ( _Rudy_ )

Everything's caught behind a barrier ten thousand feet high. He terrifies me but I can't remember why— just a jumbled mass of images. I can't feel anything. It's like I'm floating in... what are those things in the sky?

( _I'm dead_ )

There are sirens. Cars. Outside.

I see the last second on instant playback. My brain struggles to come up with a word.

Knife.

( _it was a knife_ )

I can hear them fighting. Barely see them. Too fuzzy. And suddenly my brother's on the floor. Rudy's running.

( _The Ice Truck Killer_ )

My heart is pulsing in my throat.

“Morgan!”

From outside. LaGuerta.

And... Doakes?

( _why can't I think_ ) I can't move. Everything is dead.

A door slams. My brother's suddenly up beside me. A thought surfaces. ( _I'm on a table_ ) “In the garage!” he shouts. ( _garage we're in a garage he took me to a garage)_

Another door opens. Thoughts are leaking through. ( _plastic and needles and a trunk_ )

“Through that door.” ( _body parts in brown paper a yacht on black water_ )

Footsteps. Jiggling. “It's locked! Fuck!” Doakes. ( _Doakes_ ) “Cover this door! Cover the door.” The footsteps recede. Doakes is gone.

A hand on my shoulder. My heart is beating so hard it hurts.

And through the blinding light, Dexter's looking down at me.

( _Dexter_ )

“Deb,” he says. It's his hand.

“Is she...?” LaGuerta.

( _she's asking if I'm dead_ )

( _jesus_ )

And suddenly all those nightmares burn through the fog. I spring against the plastic unbidden, trying to get away from them. _Dex,_ I try to say. ( _he's here how did he get here how is he_ )

“Uh…” Something passes over his face, and then his hand's off my shoulder and he's ducking away from the table, disappearing from sight. The break in contact sends terror crashing through me. Distantly I can hear a radio.

( _what the hell is going on what the fuck is going on they're here how did they_ )

The last thing I remember... the needle. He drugged me to keep me quiet.

“It's okay, I'm here, uh...” Dexter's back just beside me. So close he doesn't seem real. I'm not convinced he is. “Everything's going to be... let me...” He's holding the knife. The knife Rudy was holding a half a second ago.

( _the knife he was going to kill me with_ )

I feel pressure. Dexter's slashing at the plastic holding down my head, and then he's cutting at the ones around my chest, my arm. The second I get my hand back I flop it toward me. My muscles feel like they're filled with jello, controlled by strings. Somehow I get my fingers around the tape and I rip it off.

“Oh christ,” I whisper. I don't remember the last time I've heard my own voice when it wasn't screaming. “Oh jesus.”

“You're okay,” Dexter says. “It's over.”

He's hacking at the plastic around my waist. The stuff is still wrapped around my chest, but I can sort of roll over. It's not holding me down anymore. But my legs are still trapped and the feeling is terrifying.

“Get it off,” I start saying. I'm trying to sit up but my core is water and my arm is jello, folds on its own. I smash back to the table. “Get it off. _Get it off!_ ” I push up again. My other arm is still stuck. I try to yank it free but I have all the coordination of a goddamn newborn fawn. ( _the drug it was the drug it was the drug it was the_ )

“You're okay,” he says again. In the background I hear a police radio. LaGuerta. I don't know how long I forgot she was in the room too. “It's over. You're okay.” But I'm listening to my partner's grainy voice. ( _he got away Doakes is saying he got away_ )

And suddenly I have my legs back.

“Oh god, oh fuck.” I finally get my other arm out. “Oh jesus.” I pull my legs to me, immediately try to get off the table. ( _I have to get off this table_ ) But the second I sit up the whole world turns to static and all the blood leaves my head and my heart is pounding in my throat and I'm rolling off anyway.

Arms catch me. I land on the floor on my brother's chest. “We need a medic!” he's yelling.

“I'm fine,” I say automatically, wrapping my arms around him just to assure myself he's not a lie. My head is going to split open and my heart is throbbing just under my tongue, so loud I can hear it in my ears. “Oh, fuck,” I whisper into his shoulder. He feels so solid. ( _he's here he's really here I'm not dead I got off that table_ )

“Everything's going to be okay.” He starts to hug me back, almost hesitantly.

“You're here.” My head is swimming and I feel dizzy. ( _was the drug it was the_ ) “Fuck.” I screw my eyes shut against all the pounding, the looping thoughts. Distantly, I can hear voices. LaGuerta and Doakes. She must've left the room. I remember his voice over the radio. ( _he got away_ )

“You're alright?” Dexter asks.

“I'm alive.” How could I be alright? “Fuck, I never thought I'd leave this room.” I squeeze him tighter, still not believing he's really here, that I'm not dead. “How did you find me? How did you know Ru...” I can't say his name. I start again, “How did you know he was—”

He stops me, “We can talk about that later.”

“Yeah, okay.” I suck in a breath. “I can't believe you're here.” My voice still sounds alien in my ear, hoarse and raw. “I was so alone, Dex.” My eyes are stinging. Those goddamn contacts.

“I couldn't have done that to you.”

Before I can ask what that means, I hear more footsteps, open my eyes again to watch some bald guy with a paramedic badge coming in the door.

“She alright?” he asks, like I'm not sitting here.

“I'm fine,” I repeat, finally letting go of my brother. From the way he looks away, I suddenly remember that I'm naked, still half-wrapped in plastic like a fucking dead turkey. And behind the EMT, I can see Doakes and LaGuerta, both trying to look like they're not looking at me.

Something like shame creeps up my guts. ( _Doakes was here he saw me on the table Doakes and LaGuerta_ ) I still feel half-blind from the headache but I can't have them looking at me like that.

I turn back to Dexter. “But I fucking...” I exhale. “I need some clothes.”

“Yeah. Of course. I’ll find something.”

I nod, start struggling to my feet. Everything feels so discoordinated, like it's been a couple weeks since I last walked ( _maybe it has for all I fucking know_ ). “You want help?” he asks. He's already standing.

“Really, I'm okay.” I don't want that EMT coming over here. I force myself up, puff out a breath as everything turns to static again. I look at him, trying to focus on something, trying to fight away the drug. “How long has it been?”

“About 28 hours,” he says, looking at me like he's waiting for me to fall to pieces.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“I'll go, uh, find you something to wear.” Maybe he's just uncomfortable. “Unless you know where your clothes are?”

His words hit me like a brick. “Fuck, I don't know.” I bark a fucking griefy laugh. I certainly didn't take them off. ( _he knocked me out and took off my clothes wrapped me naked in plastic left me here in the dark drugged me when I woke_ )

( _and he got away_ )

“I'll be right back then.” Dexter makes his way away, stops by the paramedic guy who's still standing in the doorway, says something to him quietly, and then they both walk out.

Leaving me alone in here. ( _he stripped me bare and wrapped me up_ )

I find myself staring down at the table. It's covered in plastic sheets where Dexter cut me out. The knife's still laying there.

My gaze goes left, lands on the stainless steel table sitting next to it. Somehow I never noticed it.

It's filled with surgical instruments.

My heart skips a beat, comes back again with a vengeance. Hits my skull like a shovel.

Christ.

( _to cut me apart those were to cut me into pieces to fucking saw through my joints he was just about to kill me that's why those tools are there_ )

The big blue plastic mat under the table.

( _it's there to catch my blood so it wouldn't make a mess oh jesus_ )

Any semblance of sanity I've been holding onto slips away from me.

( _oh jesus christ oh jesus if he'd just been a few seconds later_ )

( _and he's still out there he got away how the fuck did he get away he was right here_ )

I think of Tucci. Strapped to a table like this one, kept alive for a week. Conscious.

( _oh fuck_ )

Those other girls died hanging upside down, left to bleed out like meat. But Tucci was kept on a table just like this one, strapped down like I was.

And suddenly I realize.

( _he was planning to cut me while I was alive_ )

Nausea pushes up my throat.

( _jesus fucking christ was that why he was waiting was that why he tied me down so he could—_ )

( _so he could_ )

My stomach heaves. I fall back to the floor, chest spasming, coughing on spit. I can feel the plastic crinkling as I lay my hands flat on the concrete. It's still wrapped around me.

There's nothing to vomit up, just a wet pile of froth.

( _oh god oh jesus he wanted me to feel it_ )

I heave again, spit out more bile.

( _he wanted to hear me scream beg for him to just kill me how long would I have survived the blood loss_ )

“Oh fuck,” I whisper to the ground when it finally stops. “Fuck.” My entire body feels like it's being pounded with hammers, but I know there's not a bruise on me. ( _he wanted me preserved_ )

And suddenly I feel a hand on my back. I look up to see Dexter squatting beside me, a pile of navy clothes at his feet.

“You sure you don't want one of the EMTs to look at you?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah.” I sniff. I'm not quite crying yet, don't want to start. “Yeah, he didn't...” ( _damage his canvas_ ) “There's nothing wrong with me.” I don't voice the thought.

“Okay.” He still sounds as calm as ever. Somehow that makes me feel a little stronger.

And even though I know the answer, I have to ask, “Did they catch him?”

For a beat he just looks at me, then he slowly shakes his head. “No.”

“Okay.” I nod. Tears burn at my eyes, but I blink them back, tighten my jaw. Look down. “Jesus christ, Dex.” I don't know what else to say.

“Just...” he trails off, “take one thing at a time, Deb. Get dressed so we can get you out of here.” He points at what he brought. “I got a police jacket and some pants, a pair of flip flops.”

I stare down at the little stack. “Thanks.”

“I'll wait outside.”

“Yeah.” I get up as he does. This time my head doesn't threaten to explode all over him.

He smiles at me, then turns and walks away, quietly shuts the door behind him.

The sound sends a chill down my back. Being alone in here scares me. ( _he's not in custody we don't know where he is_ ) I look at the door the Ice Truck Killer disappeared through, half-expecting him to come back through it, to finish what he started. ( _did he come to stab me because he knew the cops were coming and he didn't want them to find me alive?_ )

I can feel the plastic tight around me, like I'm still lying on that table. I start tearing and clawing at it, desperate to have it off me, desperate to be free of it. He wrapped me in it after stripping me, put me on that table and secured me to it.

“Fuck,” I whisper to myself, piercing the plastic with my fingers and ripping it off. It finally falls off my chest, floats to the floor, but before it's even made it there I'm working on the stuff around my waist. It's maddeningly tight, so tight I almost want to reach for the knife on the table or work on it with my teeth, but I fight the impulse, keep tearing at it with a strength I certainly don't feel like I have. The pounding in my head is finally lessening, but my heart's still banging around my chest like a rubber ball.

( _come on come on come on come on_ )

_**Fuck.** _

I choke on a breath. Finally the fucking thing tears off, lands on the floor beside the rest of it, totally harmless. With a sniff I lean down and grab the clothes Dexter brought, quickly slip into the pants, zip up the jacket. I have to get out of here. Fucking now.

When I step into the shoes, I choke again. I can't believe I'm even standing here. I can't believe he got away.

I can’t believe I’m alive.

Clearing my throat, I walk over to the door, reach for the knob, pull it open.

And standing right outside of it is Dexter. He looks at me almost anxiously.

“You okay?” he asks again.

“Yeah, I'm alright.” I tuck some hair behind my ear. Honestly, I feel like fucking shit, but Doakes and LaGuerta and a bunch of other cops are staring at me.

I remember the last conversation I had with my partner before... before all this shit. I feel so fucking ashamed of myself. He must think I'm such a fool. Him and everyone else.

I can't even fucking look at him.

“You should really let the paramedic look at you,” Dexter says. “Just for a minute or two.”

“A minute,” I repeat. The last thing I want is to be looked at. I just want to go home.

“Please.” He catches my eye, says it with an earnestness that I'm not used to from him.

I can physically feel myself give up. “Okay,” I murmur.

“Thanks.” He turns and makes eye contact with the EMT guy, who's standing over there expectantly. ( _he knew I'd say yes_ )

“Could you come with me to the ambulance, ma'am?” Baldy says as he approaches with the sort of posture one might assume when approaching a frightened gazelle. Or a frightened victim. ( _is that what I am now?_ )

“Yeah,” I say, resigning myself. I'm too tired for formalities and I'm too tired for him. I cross my arms across my chest and allow him to lead me to the back of the ambulance. My flip flops sink into the dirt with every step.

When I get there I take a seat, curl up against the door, watch him set his bright orange bag down.

And I take a breath.

Let it out slowly.

 


	78. Why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the inspiration for this scene was when I noticed that Deb uses the same purse for most of the series, and it was the same purse that she had with her when she met Rudy/Brian Moser on the yacht. When I asked myself how she could still have that purse into later seasons after the kidnapping, I came up with two possible explanations. This one was my favorite.

_ _

_Why?  
_ _Setting: “Born Free”_

* * *

“That'll do it.” Overly Sympathetic Nurse shoots me a smile that's just a little too warm before she pulls the needle out. I can't bring myself to even try to return it. I'm way too fucking tired, and my arm is starting to sting almost as much as the two punctures in my neck.

She presses a little cotton square over my arm. “Do you feel okay? Any light-headedness? Dizziness?”

“I'm fine,” I reply mechanically. The last thing I wanted was another needle in me, but I couldn't fucking handle the way everyone here was treating me, so I just said yes, sat down and silently watched her take two vials of blood. I know from experience that one of them is going into evidence back at the station, to be filed under my shiny new case number.

“Can I get you anything? You want any water? Hot cocoa?”

I take the stupid cotton square from her, flex my arm as I reclaim it, settle it back into my lap. “No.”

I hate the way she's looking at me, like I'm a fucking beaten puppy. Is this what my face looks like every time I've talked to a grieving family? “Don't try to sit up yet. I'll bring up the chair slowly.”

“Yeah.” I want to tell her to fuck off. I want to hurt her feelings so she'll just fucking leave me alone. I don't need to be here. I don't need to know what he drugged me with. I don't care. It doesn't matter.

But instead I just let her take the seat up as slowly as she wants, don't make any effort to get off these thin, paper-covered cushions. My head is one big throbbing mass.

“I'll go run these off to the lab, tell the doctor we're done in here, alright?”

I cradle my arm, just glad she's finally leaving. “Yeah.”

“Sure you don't want me to bring you anything?”

Please just fucking go. “Yeah.”

“Okay, hun.” The little pet name is like a stab to the abdomen. She puts a friendly hand on my shoulder before she finally picks up the tray with my blood in it, leaves the room.

The second I hear the door click I close my eyes, drape my arm over them, shake my head as my lip quivers. _Fuck._ I can feel my heart pulling in my chest. _**Fuck.**_

After the EMTs dropped us off I was seen immediately, have been passed exclusively between female personnel. Everyone knows that I'm a capital V Victim, and they made sure to surround me with anyone on staff without a dick who can wear a pair of kid gloves, as if somehow that'll shield me from these last few days, won't remind me why I'm here.

And somehow they all seem to know what happened to me, how I was found. Naked and strapped down.

Overly Sympathetic Nurse was the one to ask me quietly if I needed a rape kit.

At that moment I almost wished I had died on that table.

“Fuck,” I whisper. I may have survived but now that's what I am: a survivor, a victim. No one has called me Officer since I got here. I'm not even sure I want to remind them.

( _I think a real cop would at least have a sense that she was in the presence of the person she was hunting, right?_ )

( _So desperate to fall in love_ )

I can see him there, floating in the dark beyond my arm. That way he looked at me like I was nothing. I can still see him staring down at me after he threw me in that trunk with the dead man, standing over me with a needle as I laid tied down and sprawled on that table. His... emptiness.

It scares the shit out of me.

( _and I never saw it not even for a moment I never saw the evil there_ )

( _and now he's in the wind_ )

I hear the door open, immediately drop my arm. When I look at the doorway I half expect to see Overly Sympathetic Nurse again, come to make sure I really don't want anything to drink, but this time it's the doctor and my brother. She at least hasn't been quite so goddamn nice.

I pull the sleeve of the police jacket down over my arm, clear my throat. “I'm ready to go,” I say, glad he's finally here.

Something I don't like passes over his face. “Actually, Deb...” he starts.

“No.” I already know what he's going to say. “No fucking way.”

“We're going to keep you here overnight for observation,” the doctor speaks for him. For some reason I can't remember her name.

I slide off the chair, shaking my head. “No, there's no fucking reason for me to stay here.” Even in these cheap fucking flip flops I'm taller than her by several inches. “He never actually got around to sawing me apart. I'm just fucking fine.” Despite the height difference and my rapidly escalating mood, she's clearly unmoved. I look at my brother. “I don't need to be here.”

I can't tell if that's guilt on his face or what. “Just listen to the doctor, Deb.”

“I did.” The headache's starting to push into the red. “I was fucking sitting right here when she said I was fine.” Just a couple goddamn bruises. That's all he managed to leave me with.

“We just want to keep you here overnight,” she says calmly. “Just as a precaution. We don't know what he gave you.”

“If it was going to kill me I think we'd know by now,” I say it only half sarcastically. He put me under twice. ( _he knocked me down and put that needle in my neck_ )

( _Call it an homage_ )

( _what the fuck did that even mean?_ )

She doesn't take the bait. Instead just pauses before saying, “I'll give you two a minute alone.”

I don't say anything as she steps out, quietly shuts the door behind her. When she's gone I turn to my brother, feeling something like desperation clawing just under the headache. “I don't need to be observed, Dex.”

“Like she said, it's just a precaution. If something happens—”

“If something happens you'll be there.” I don't want him to leave me here. Alone.

He just looks at me. “Don't put that responsibility on me.”

That cuts. I look away, eyes starting to sting again. I'm so fucking tired.

“It's not just about whatever he used on you.” He takes a step forward, makes me look at him again. “There are two police officers standing right outside this door, six more in the building. I talked to the admitting nurse and she said they can give you a private room on the top floor. You'll be safer up there with an armed guard than you would be in my apartment.”

I almost want to tell him that I'd feel just as safe with him, but I swallow the words. Maybe he's scared of the Ice Truck Killer too, that he might try to finish what he started tonight. And if he is I couldn't even argue with him, because I know in my soul that Ru— that the Ice Truck Killer will come back for me. There's no way he'd let me live, not after putting so much effort into me.

( _that evil fucking bastard_ )

I inhale hard, try to rein in my emotions before they can spin completely out of control. “Okay,” I say. “Fine, you're right.” I shake my head, bury my face in my fingertips. “Fuck.”

I feel his hand on my shoulder, drop my arms to look at him. “It's just for the night,” he says.

But he's wrong. “He's going to come after me again,” the words spill out. “If he can't tonight he'll just wait for an opportunity. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I'm a fucking cop. I can't have a fucking entourage following me around day and night.” ( _he wouldn't give me the chance to shoot him_ )

He squeezes slightly, “Just focus on getting through tonight for now, alright?”

I shake my head helplessly. “I don't know how.”

“The doctor said she can prescribe you a mild sedative.”

( _Like Valium?_ ) The thought chills me. “I...” I trail off. “No.”

“You'll go home in the morning,” he says it like a promise. “For tonight, I just want to know that you're safe here.”

He looks so fucking reasonable, and I feel utterly defeated. “I said alright already,”

“Thanks.”

I exhale, cross my arms across my chest. Feel the nylon jacket slide over my skin. “Could you go by my apartment then?” I voice it as I think it. “Pick up something for me to wear tonight other than this?” I brush the collar with my fingers. “You still have my key, right?” Because I don't.

“Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“And something to eat.” My stomach's a hard, painful knot. I barely ate anything the day I went to... the day he took me, was too fucking wrapped up in the investigation ( _I had no idea what that marker really meant never put the pieces together_ ). And that was over a day ago. “I can't fucking eat hospital food.”

“Okay.” He's so calm. “Anything you want in particular?”

No. “Surprise me.” I just don't want to be hungry anymore, don't really give a shit what it is I have to eat as long as it doesn't come on one of those fucking plastic, reusable trays.

“Okay.” He touches my shoulder again. “I'll wait with you until they get your room ready, then I can go out, pick those things up for you.”

As much as I appreciate the offer, I don't want Big Brother hanging around me like a shield. I can still take care of myself— he didn't take that away from me. I can't let everyone keep looking at me like he broke me. ( _because everyone seems to know what he did to me what he was going to do_ ) “No, just go now.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “I just want to be out of these fucking clothes as soon as possible.”

He nods, gives me one of his calm smiles. “I'll be right back then.”

I nod, and we walk to the door together. I reach to open it, and the second I pull it back I spot Overly Sympathetic Nurse leaning against a counter, talking to some guy in a doctor's coat. The thought flicks through my head that I should escape back inside, but before I can move she's already spotted me, is smiling in that too warm way, like she knows me.

She weighs about a 117 pounds more than Mom, has the wrong hair and the wrong nose and too much jewelry, but for some reason that smile makes me think of her.

It's making me fucking uncomfortable.

“I'll see you soon, sis,” Dexter says.

“Yeah,” I say. I look away from the nurse, wrap my brother in a hug. The nylon crinkles against him, makes me think of where we were an hour ago, sitting on that blue mat. “Thank you,” I say quietly into his shoulder. I don't know what else to say.

“It's not that long of a trip,” he says. Unironically.

I bark a laugh, squeeze him a little tighter. “I wasn't talking about getting my clothes, fuckface.”

He doesn't say anything for a beat, then, “You don't have to keep thanking me.”

I pull away from him. He looks as relaxed as always. It's almost as if he doesn't feel the full weight of what he did, of what he saved me from. “I do, for now.” If not for him I would've been dying a slow and brutal death an hour ago. He would've sawed me into pieces and kept me awake for it. And maybe I wouldn’t even be dead yet. “Now, would you go?” ( _before I ask you to stay_ )

“I'm going.” One last smile, and then he's walking away from me, leaving me alone in the doorway. And before he's quite out of sight, Overly Sympathetic Nurse walks over.

I eye her warily as she approaches. It's the fact that I believe her— that she really does want to help me, that she pities me. Somehow that makes this worse. “I spoke with Dr. Kelly,” she says. “Your room isn't ready yet, but we can go upstairs to wait. It should only be a few minutes.”

We?

“In the meanwhile, Dr. Kelly said she prescribed you a—”

“I don't fucking want to take anything,” I interrupt quietly. She's making me tired. More tired. “I just want to sleep.”

She doesn't even blink at the f-bomb, just keeps smiling in her comforting way. “Of course. We can go up now then.”

I nod and glance left, spot the two uniforms standing on either side of the curve in the hall that leads back to reception. They're both part of Miami Metro, work out of my building instead of some geographically closer department of MDPD, and I know them from a few canvases and crime scenes. I remember one of them was standing in a different hospital just a few days ago, waiting with the rest of us for news about Batista. They followed my ambulance here.

When I make eye contact with Peterson I gesture him over, then look back at the nurse. “Let's go,” I say.

“Alright.”

She starts walking, and I trail behind her. In a moment my fellow officers ( _my guards_ ) have caught up with me, but their presence doesn't make me feel any stronger. If anything I just feel more exposed, naked as I am in these flip flops and nylon clothes.

We nod and smile at each other all the same, but when we get to the elevator they flank me on either side, radio to tell the other cops in the building that we're moving, effectively ruining even the briefest illusion that the three of us are all just coworkers. For a second I almost wish I didn't know them.

When we get off, Overly Sympathetic Nurse leads us down a few hallways until we get to a small waiting room. Then she indicates inside, tells us to wait here, asks if we want anything to drink, asks if we're sure we don't want anything.

When she finally leaves the three of us go in and sit down. They choose seats just beside me, but none of us speak. They probably don't know what to say, and I don't particularly want to say anything, can't bring myself to ask a question or offer up some gallows humor. The weight of my near death is still too heavy, and my head still hurts like an angry bitch. And I know exactly what they must think of me— how much of a blind, fucking dipshit I must be to the entire department. The Ice Truck Killer fooled everyone, but I've gone harder at this investigation than anyone, and I never had the slightest fucking inkling that I was coming home to fuck the very bastard I was hunting. And I thought that I loved him. ( _I did love him_ )

I'm a fucking disgrace.

“Did anyone tell you?”

I look over at Peterson, surprised he opened his mouth. Hit the rewind button. “About what?” I ask.

“Batista was released today. He's taking sick leave, but he'll be fine, should be back at work in a couple weeks.”

Of all the things I was expecting to hear. “I'm glad.” I smile slightly. “We any closer to finding the fuckwad who stabbed him?”

At this they both shift uncomfortably, simultaneously. Some half-formed thought floats to the surface, dries my mouth. Something like dread. “What?” I ask.

Peterson looks at Willis. Willis clears his throat. “It was the Ice Truck Killer,” he says after a beat.

I just stare at them.

“That was the lead that led us to you.” He looks more uncomfortable with every word. “His DNA was on Batista's collar.”

The realization hits me hard and suddenly. The split lip.

We were kissing that night. He brought me flowers. I remember the blood on his... he told me it was a workshop accident, but he must have come straight from that parking garage. He was sitting there when I took that call from Doakes.

I feel my stomach lurch. That was when he told me he loved me.

“Jesus.” I bury my face in my hands. It was my fault.

None of us say anything after that. I don’t know how to process this, and now everything about that night that I never noticed has suddenly come sharply into focus— he tried to murder Batista, then killed and chopped up that girl. I went to him when I was upset about it all, and he gave me that Valium so he could gift wrap her body parts and arrange them under that tree while I was passed out in his bed.

_Christ._

Why didn't he kill me that night while I slept? Why didn't he kill me any other night? Why did it take a proposal on a yacht filled with flowers for him to finally take off the fucking mask? Why did he have to wait until I put on that goddamn fucking ring? What was the purpose of any of it?

_He stabbed Batista._

( _I said yes_ )

“The room's all ready for you.”

Overly Sympathetic Nurse is standing right in front of me. I didn't even notice her come in.

I just grunt and get up. I need to get away from my coworkers. I don't know how they can stand to be anywhere near me.

We all file out in silence. As I follow the nurse, I can't stop seeing Batista's blood all over the parking garage floor. Why would the Ice Truck Killer stab him? Was it really my fault? I don't see how it couldn't be. I brought him into the station. Did I introduce them?

I can't remember. My head is pounding so hard I feel nauseous.

I keep seeing that dead man in the trunk, keep feeling his body rolling against me. He'd be alive if I'd seen it sooner, if I hadn't stepped onto that fucking boat.

The nurse stops in front of a door. I almost collide with her before I notice.

“Here you are,” she says. “Come on.”

I glance at my fellow cops before I follow her inside. The lighting's terrible and everything's in a sickly shade of peach. It's starting to sink in that I really have to stay here, because the reality is, even if I ignored my brother and had the uniforms take me home, I'd be too fucking scared to go through my own front door.

Overly Sympathetic Nurse is oblivious to my thoughts. “Your gown's sitting on the bed,” she says. “TV remote's on the nightstand. If you need anything just hit the button on the bed and a nurse will be right over.”

I clear my throat and step forward, arms wrapped around my chest. “I don't need the gown. My brother's bringing some clothes.”

Her smile dips a little. “I'm afraid it's hospital policy, dear.”

I turn my gaze on her, can feel the pain starting to bear down on me. She needs to leave before I crack. “I don't give a rabbit's fuckhole about hospital policy. I'm only wearing this fucking...” I pause and shake my head, let my hands fall into an all-encompassing gesture. “outfit because I woke up naked and wrapped in plastic on a serial killer's table. The only thing I'm fucking taking these off for is my own clothes.”

Now the smile's gone entirely, but it was a mistake to drop the reins. She looks so damn _sad_. “Okay, I understand,” she says. “I apologize.”

I don't know if I want to cry or if I want to kill her or if I want to jump out the window. Instead I just walk the rest of the way over to the bed, drop onto it. “I'd like to be alone,” I say, pushing my hair back and pulling it to one shoulder.

“Of course, dear. Just let me know if you need anything.”

I nod, and she draws up another smile, then takes the gown and walks away, shuts the door behind her.

And suddenly I'm alone again.

It was a mistake to say anything. Now that I've opened the door, I don't think I can shut it again.

“Fuck,” I say quietly, still half gripping my hair. “Goddammit.” I close my eyes, let one hand slide down and wrap around my waist, press the other against my forehead. My heart is aching and my head is pounding and I can feel something like grief pushing up my throat.

“Jesus.” I start to weep. Suddenly everything's crashing down, everything's mashing together. Batista and that trunk and that table and that fucking raft where I almost succeeded in throwing myself hogtied into the bay. Those fucking surgical tools that he was going to use to saw me apart alive. The plastic wrap and the blue mat to catch my blood. That corpse in the silver sedan.

Before he dragged me into that garage, as he pulled me out of that trunk, he blindfolded me. I screamed and sobbed as he rolled me onto the body before hoisting me out. He made me walk in there blind, then let me go to watch me spin around the room. I was out of my mind, so fucking terrified.

I crush my arm to my chest, my hand into my face, choking and sobbing.

My lips still burn where he kept taping my mouth to keep me quiet. My throat is raw from screaming through it. My eyes feel itchy and painful after almost two full days with those contacts in. I haven't eaten in fuck knows how long.

( _he was going to cut into me while I was awake_ )

“ _Fuck_.”

( _he would've taken off the tape to hear me scream and no one would've heard me except him_ )

“Oh, fuck.” I feel like I'm crumbling, falling apart at the seams. “Fuck! _Fuck!_ ” Every breath hitches, seems to catch in my throat.

( _I was so alone I was so alone_ )

( _I was so afraid_ )

I don't know what to do. I don't know how I never noticed, how I could've been so gullible, so fucking stupid. I don't know how I thought I could see feelings in those soulless fucking eyes of his. He told me everything he knew I wanted to hear, made me feel so...

_So..._

“ _Fuck!_ ” He didn't just want to murder me. He wanted to crush me. He wanted me to admit that I loved him, that I'd marry him, before sawing my life away. He saw me for a desperate fucking idiot, and he wanted me to die feeling like one.

He probably wanted to fuck me because I was working his case. Wanted to kill me because I was too stupid to see through him.

( _why am I even still alive?_ )

I jump at a sudden knock on the door.

If that's that fucking nurse I swear to fuck I will kill her with my bare fucking hands.

And then there's a second knock. “Morgan? You awake?”

It's Doakes.

Shit.

I hurriedly wipe off my face, sniffing. I almost want to say nothing, let him assume I'm asleep and go away, but just as much I want him to come in. “Yeah,” I say, swiping at my eyes again and clearing my throat.

The door opens slightly. For a beat my partner looks inside like he's afraid of what he's going to see, but then he finds me on the bed and his face relaxes. I call a wane smile to my lips in response and stand up, maybe just to ease some of the tension. “You can come in,” I say.

“Alright.” He opens the door more and walks inside. For some reason he's holding a black trash bag. I open my mouth to ask what the fuck that is when two more people enter behind him: LaGuerta and some other chick.

I look at the stranger, absolutely at a loss as to who she is and what she's doing here. But before I can ask, mystery chick is stepping forward, sticking out her hand. “I'm Esme Pascal,” she says. “I've been appointed the new lieutenant of Homicide.”

I take her hand after a beat, slightly taken aback. She was brought in while I was missing? “Debra Morgan,” I say. “But you knew that.” I glance at LaGuerta, surprised she's even standing in her presence, more surprised that she isn't squirreled away somewhere plotting her assassination.

“How're you feeling, Morgan?” my former LT asks. I know she saw me looking at her— probably even guessed what I was thinking.

“Just fucking great.” I cross my arms again, having less than no desire to talk about me. “Did you find him?”

Their immediate glances away give me my answer. “I'm afraid not,” Pascal says.

Fucking excellent.

“But we will,” Doakes says when I say nothing. “We've got this asshole's number. The entire country knows his face by now. He won't be able to survive out there long.”

No wonder everyone in the hospital seems to know what happened to me. “Good,” is all I can think to say. My gaze slides down, lands on the bag he's holding. “What's that?”

“Oh.” He lifts it awkwardly, then walks closer, sets it gently on the bed. “We found this while we were tossing the house. It, um...” I've never seen him look so uncomfortable. “It looks like your things.”

I stare at him, then look back at the bag, feeling something shudder in my chest. He kept my stuff, stuck them all in a trash bag?

I step forward and take the thing, feel the plastic under my fingertips for a moment, then I quickly turn it over, let everything spill out.

“Shit,” I exhale, suddenly feeling like I swallowed glass. My purse is the last thing to fall out, lands on top of my blazer, pants, and shirt, all neatly folded. Just to the side are my boots, underwear, bra, socks, watch, a couple loose cigarettes, and...

I just look at them, too stunned for thought.

My badge, my gun, my cuffs.

After he put me out he got rid of all the tape that bound me, took off my clothes, folded them up, and put them neatly in a trash bag with everything I left on the boat.

I slowly sink back onto the bed, staring at it all. “Guess you don't have to worry about reissuing anything,” I hear myself say in a strange voice as I reach for my purse and open it. Everything's in there just as I left it: my wallet, my pens, my notepad, my car and house keys, eye drops, even that crumpled up five I got as change from the coffee truck on my way to meet... on my way to the marina.

“Are you okay?” Doakes asks. He's backed off a little, but he's still standing close.

“I've never been less okay in my entire fucking life,” I say quietly, setting my purse on my lap and staring at everything else on the bed. What was he planning to do? Toss the bag in a dumpster on his way to lay out my body? Or was he planning to do some sick fucking arrangement with them? Maybe handcuff my dismembered wrists together?

“I figured you'd want to have these back as soon as possible,” he says.

I can't think of any kind of a reply.

“I'm sorry we couldn't give you anything better.”

Like his head on a goddamn pike?

“Thank you,” I say dully. He kept everything. Why? Why the fuck would he do that?

“We'll catch this asshole, Morgan. I promise you.”

I look at him, still stunned. And for some reason something pops into my head. “What was that with my brother earlier?”

His face seems to close up immediately. He glances away, sets his jaw. “It doesn't matter.”

“It does matter.” I don't even know why I brought it up, why I thought of it. “You were acting like you thought he was fucking... involved with what happened to me.”

Pascal looks over at him. LaGuerta shifts uncomfortably. It's obvious at once that only one of them knew about this. “It was unfounded,” he says simply, but he's avoiding the question.

I make eye contact and hold it. “Dexter saved my life tonight,” I say more firmly than I've said anything since I was pulled off that table. “If he'd gotten there when the rest of you did, I wouldn't be sitting here. I know you've always had a problem with him, but,” I shake my head, “I don't know what could fucking make you think that he would...” what, be working with the Ice Truck Killer? That's too ridiculous for words. “What did you even think he was doing?” I ask.

“I didn't know. He was just acting suspiciously after you disappeared.”

I stare at him, aghast, suddenly find myself on my feet again. “Did you fucking waste time _investigating_ him?”

He says nothing.

“How dare you.” I try to find something in his face that doesn't seem to be there. “He's my own brother. You really think he'd let Ru—” I keep choking on his fake name. “You really think he'd work with the Ice Truck Killer, let him kidnap me and strap me to that table? That's not even insane. That's absolutely fucking ridiculous. That's so completely fucked.”

“Morgan,” LaGuerta says, stepping forward, but I ignore her, still staring at my partner. I can't believe he would do this. “Debra,” she tries again. After a beat I finally look at her. “No one was or is investigating Dexter,” she says. “Tensions just got a little high. There were misunderstandings on both sides. But it's passed.”

“It fucking better be.” If I had room for anymore emotions right now I'd be furious. “I don't ever want to hear about this shit again.” I blow out a breath. The headache's come back with a vengeance, and between that and the hunger I'm starting to almost feel dizzy. “Dexter should be back to the hospital soon. I think you should leave before he gets here.”

LaGuerta nods, glances at Doakes, who seems to be deflating. “Alright,” he says.

“Thank you for bringing me this.” I look down at my shit all over the bed.

“It was the least we could do.” His voice has already lost its edge. When I look up I can see something that looks like regret there.

“We're glad to see you're okay,” LaGuerta adds. “And hopefully by the morning we'll have something. CSU isn't leaving that house until we've cataloged every speck of dust on the property.”

I couldn't have any less faith in CSU to turn up anything that'll lead to the Ice Truck Killer. But I don't say that, just nod.

“We'll see you tomorrow.” She flashes me a smile that looks as practiced as the rest of her.

“It was nice meeting you,” Pascal says. I almost forgot she's been standing here. What a terrible fucking impression I must've made, her starting as LT the same day the department's chasing my boyfriend for kidnapping me and chopping up a low minimum of seven people.

“Likewise,” I return, with just about the same amount of sincerity.

Both of the lieutenants turn to leave, but Doakes doesn't move. “I'm sorry about what happened to you,” he says after a moment.

I sit back on the bed, starting to feel exhausted again. “Yeah, that makes two of us,” I say.

It seems like he wants to say something else, but he doesn't, and then the three of them walk out of my room, shut the door behind them.

And in the silence I stare down at all my things, still caught halfway between that argument and the fact that they found this plastic bag. It all would feel so surreal if it wasn't still so damned vivid, every second of it.

Because when I close my eyes I can still feel myself bobbing hog-tied on the water, can feel myself boiling alive in that trunk, can feel all that plastic wrapped tight around me, pinning me down for him to do with me whatever the hell he felt like with those spotless, steel tools.

So I keep my eyes open, reach forward and pick my badge up off the bed.

And then I just stare at it.

Looking for... fucking something.

 


	79. The Bouquet

_ _

_The Bouquet  
_ _Setting: “Born Free”_

* * *

Brian Moser.

I keep repeating it to myself, over and over, like there's some sense to be found there, like it really makes any difference to know. Somehow I was the last to find out. I had to hear it from the news.

And I can't stop seeing his picture floating there beside that news anchor's shoulder, keep hearing that report repeat in my head like it's coming out of the radio, like it's projected across the windshield. Seeing his face again from my seat on that flimsy mattress took my breath away. I know that picture, recognized it from his hospital ID badge. How many times did I unclip it from his shirt?

And then...

I press my teeth together, glare at the red light.

Me.

My picture. Suspended over some grainy fucking b-roll of the house they pulled me out of last night. Of course they would've found the place, for as many patrol units as they crowded the street with.

As if that's anyone's goddamn business. ( _as if they made any difference_ )

I jump as someone beeps behind me, realize the light's turned green. Swallow and hit the gas again.

When I checked myself out of the hospital, there were reporters waiting for me in the parking lot, taking pictures and calling out for me, because I'm a headline story now, a victim. No, more than that: I'm the fucking dipshit Homicide cop who fell in love with the Ice Truck Killer, who narrowly avoided being sliced into fifteen bloodless, roughly equal-sized pieces by her psychopathic lover, who had to be saved by her brother and her partner.

I flipped off the TV the moment the shock from seeing myself up there wore off, but it was enough. I know how this tabloid shit works. If I made CNN, I've made everything else. There's no way this hasn't been picked up by everyone from the _Tribune_ to FOX to HLN.

It's no wonder everyone in the hospital knew what happened to me. My face has been circulating in the news since I disappeared. I made the headline of yesterday's paper, complete with a color picture. I didn't have to read it to know what it said.

And right there with me on the top billing was Brian Moser.

After Dexter left last night I barely slept, was too afraid, even despite my fellow officers standing just outside the door. I kept seeing him in the dark, kept expecting him to flip on the lights and drive his knife into my chest. But eventually I did fall asleep, fell into a big black hole for an hour and thirty-two minutes before I woke up to see the sunrise.

And when I did I couldn't help but remember where I'd been sitting twenty-four hours before. Rocking hogtied on that fucking life raft.

I hit my blinker, take a right. I'm barely paying attention to the road.

Dexter took me from the hospital to the station a half an hour ago, where I found my car sitting in impound, still locked and untouched. They towed it there looking for evidence, but I guess they never actually got around to doing anything to it. When I got in everything was just as I left it— random water bottles and balled up papers on the floor, empty coffee cup in the center compartment, cigarette box in the console, ITK folders sitting on the seat.

I threw my shit over them when I got in, not wanting to think about why those case files are there. Then I said bye to my brother and rolled right the hell out. Me and my little escort.

I glance in the rearview, spot the patrol unit one car down.

Coz right now I can't just go home alone. He's still out there, and knowing him ( _the real him_ ) he'd love nothing more than to murder me in my own apartment.

My fingers tighten almost involuntary around the steering wheel.

Since this morning I've been imagining him coming after me, and I keep seeing myself gunning him down, keep feeling a phantom kick back, keep imagining how it'd feel to watch him crumple at my feet.

I never thought there'd be a time in my life where I could actually pull the trigger, but now...

I don't think I'd even hesitate.

And I don't know how I feel about that.

Finally I make the turn onto my own street, and then I'm pulling into my covered parking space around back. The green and white following me parks a few cars down, in one of the open spaces. After killing the engine I just sit here for a second, feeling stunned to have even made it here. I'd been so sure I was going to die, so fucking terrified of it, that now I almost feel empty from its absence, like my thoughts can't quite connect together anymore over the gap where all that fear and all that certainty drained away.

Clearing my throat, I hit the seat-belt button, reach for my stuff on the passenger-side seat. Seeing those ITK folders under them brings me right back to that marina, to my plans to meet Doakes to canvas, to every fucking mistake I made that day. I look away, force myself to open the door and step out. When I do I find my two bodyguards waiting for me a couple yards down. Today it's Brown and Doyle. Another two I know from my own department.

I almost want to dismiss them, but instead as I approach them all I say is, “It's just on the other side of the wall.”

They nod and fall behind me as I head forward to the gate, stab in the entry code and go through. As I walk I see tinsel and lights hanging off balconies, Christmas trees and menorahs in windows, a blow-up fucking snowman and several wire reindeer. And suddenly I remember the holiday.

“What day is it?” I ask distantly as I turn the corner for my apartment.

There's a pause before Brown replies, “It's the twenty-fourth.”

Christmas Eve.

Not that I ever gave a shit about the holiday.

I stop when I get to my door, can't help but glance at the locks suspiciously. Everything looks fine, just the way it always has, but...

I reach for the handle, press it down. It stays firm. Still locked. Exhaling, I stick my key in, unlock and swing the door in.

“We'll take a quick look around for you,” Brown says, sliding off her sunglasses and sticking them in her breast pocket. “Coming in?”

“Yeah.” I can't stop the unease, even after having found the door locked and seemingly untampered with.

All of us draw at the same time, and then we file into my apartment like it's a crack house. When I walk in everything's how I left it. As the two other cops head into my bedroom, I stand here staring at my clothes thrown around the couch, at the beer bottles and mugs on the coffee table, and suddenly I imagine Dexter walking in here to find all this. Come to deal with my shit after they found my body parts piled in front of Miami Metro. Dishes in the sink and trash and clothes and towels everywhere, remains of a fucking take-out sandwich in the trash. I'd've died just in time for a New Year’s funeral.

This could've been what he walked in to see. This was almost what I left him to deal with.

_Jesus._

“All clear,” Doyle says as he and his partner come back in from my bedroom. There's not much space in this apartment to search.

“Thanks,” I hear myself say, still caught on that awful idea.

“We'll be right outside.” He gives me a friendly smile and touches my shoulder before the both of them walk out, close the door quietly behind them.

Leaving me to stand here, still gripping my purse and my bag of clothes in one hand and my gun in the other. After a beat I walk over to my counter, stick my shit on top of a hand towel, and then I walk over to the balcony, slide open the door and check every corner, some paranoid piece of my soul half-convinced he's hanging up on the wall or something. But when I look he isn't there. I force myself to the railing, look over it and around just to make sure he's not crouched in the bushes.

He isn't.

But I still feel spooked.

I keep my hands locked around my gun as I walk cautiously to my bedroom, not quite believing he really isn't here, and when I get there my gaze immediately hits on the thing on the opposite side of the room. My breath seems to die in my chest.

The bouquet.

I stare at the bunch of white roses. They're sitting in a pitcher on my dresser because I don't own a vase, didn't know where else to put them, and already they're wilting, shedding pedals all over the wood and the floor.

( _he gave those to me_ )

( _he brought those right after he tried to murder Batista to make me forgive him to make me believe that he loved me_ )

Something breaks inside me.

I find myself walking over to my bed, slowly sinking to the floor against it. I place my pistol on the carpet just beside me, lean back against the quilt. For some reason I made my bed. Everything else in here is a disaster, but I made my bed before I left.

( _I thought he might come home with me that we might_ )

I can see him everywhere, can smell his cologne. How many times did I bring him back here? How many times did we fuck in my bed? How many times did I fall asleep before him, wake up to hear him watching TV in the living room?

All those nights. I trusted him, I loved— I let him inside, I craved him. He could've killed me a thousand times, and I don't know why he didn't. Why did he bring me flowers? Why did he propose to me? Why didn't he just kill me any other night, while I was sleeping in my own bed? Why didn't he kill me the day we met, when I invited him out to get dinner? ( _or did he ask me?_ )

He made Tucci's prosthetics after he sawed off his limbs. And he...

My breath hitches. I suddenly remember sitting in that fishbowl watching video feeds, being handed that note. The note that led me to Tucci.

In the back of my head I've always thought that it was the Ice Truck Killer who called me out to that basement that night. That for some reason he wanted me to find him down there.

Was it really him? Is it even a coincidence that we met a few days later?

How the fuck did he even know who I was? Why would he have called me out of everyone working this case? Because I'm the only woman besides LaGuerta?

Why did he choose me?

It's starting to get hard to breathe again. I can feel my heart twisting in my chest, grief lapping at the base of my tongue.

He left Cassandra Mendoza chopped up in the pool of the motel I was working, back when I was still Brandi. Before I was even in Homicide...

( _but that doesn't make any fucking sense how could he even have known who I was_ )

I don't know what to think anymore. I don't know what to do. Why the fuck did he target me? How long had he been planning this? Why me? Why did he try to kill me now? What the fuck happened between now and that night we met? Why did he call me to that hospital? Why did he want me to find Tucci?

Did he really leave that message for me?

I bury my face in my knees, moaning with a voice that doesn't seem to belong to me, my eyes burning. My throat feels swollen.

He was here in my home. When we fucked he called it making love. And I believed him. I _felt_ it. I cried.

How did I never see it? Why did I believe him? How could I never have suspected? How could I have trusted him? How could I be such a gullible fucking idiot?

( _he must've known he must've known_ )

There's a knock on the door.

I look up, suck in a breath. It takes a full second before I remember Doyle and Brown.

Clearing my throat, I force myself back to my feet, wondering what the hell they want. By the time I've gotten back to my front door, I hear tapping again, and when I open it, Brown is standing there, her fist still raised.

“What?” I ask.

She stares at me uneasily. Beside her, Doyle looks equally uncomfortable. “We just got news through dispatch,” she says finally.

“Of fucking what?” I ask, not knowing how to process their expressions.

“Of the Ice Truck Killer.” I feel my insides coil. “He's... well, he's dead.”

I just stare at her. I... ( _he's..._ ) “What?” I think I hear myself say.

“They're saying it looks like a suicide.”

I keep staring at her, struggling to make any sense of what came out of her mouth. “He's dead?” I repeat.

She nods, shifts back a step. “Yeah.”

He...

I stare at them both. My thoughts seem to be stuck on that word. ( _dead he's dead he's dead he's_ ) “Who...” ( _dead he's dead he's dead he's dead_ ) “Who's saying it looks like a suicide?”

“The first responders.”

( _he's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead he's_ )

“Where?”

“At his apartment.”

“Okay.” I can feel myself nodding, but what she's saying doesn't make any fucking sense. “I need to call the station.” I retract, slowly shut the door.

Why didn't anyone call me?

I turn and stare at my land-line from where it's sitting on the counter, remember my cell phone was the only thing Doakes didn't bring back to me in that garbage bag. Who knows where it is. Probably at the bottom of Biscayne Bay. Where I almost threw myself.

( _he's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead_ )

( _he fucking killed himself_ )

I float over to the phone. Nothing seems real. It can't quite penetrate.

( _they're saying it looks like a suicide_ )

When I pick it up I stare at it. I forgot what I was going to do with it. Someone sucked all the air out of the room, replaced it with lead.

Why am I holding this?

( _he's dead he's dead he's dead he's dead he's_ )

My air conditioning unit suddenly kicks on, and I jump, glance around at it.

And for some reason that snaps me out of it.

My heart's in my throat as I dial, lift the phone to my ear, wait for my brother to answer, and all the while that revelation keeps repeating in my head.

The Ice Truck Killer is dead.

Rudy... is dead.

 


	80. Hanging

_ _

_Hanging  
_ _Setting: “Born Free”_

* * *

I jam the nozzle back into the pump, turn to snap the gas tank door shut, and then I just stand here, staring over at the Liquor & Wine sign suspended over the mini-mart's doors. The windows are all plastered with stick-on snow and snowflakes and pine trees, giant cartoon reindeer. As I watch, some guy walks out holding a hot dog wrapped in shiny tin foil and heads to his flatbed, where a big, shaggy golden retriever is leaning out the window, waiting for him.

Everything is normal. Quiet. All things considered, it's a beautiful day. Maybe 73, 74. When I got back in my car from my apartment I took down the top for the breeze and the sun, maybe just to appreciate the fact that I can still feel them, or maybe just to appreciate that I wasn’t traveling by trunk.

And as I stand here I can feel my heart tapping distantly in my ear.

Everything's a fucking jumble.

Nothing seems quite real— just a little too loud, a little too bright, a little too disconnected.

I'm not convinced I'm not actually dead on that table, or that I'm not still strapped to it, drugged and hallucinating. I can almost feel that plastic wrap, my fingernails digging into it, and the sound of it crinkling, like part of me is still there, never left the garage. I can barely feel my feet on the concrete.

But Rudy is dead— Brian Moser, the Ice Truck Killer, whatever the fuck I should call him. He died, fucking... killed himself in his own apartment.

And I'm still here.

I'm still here and I'm standing a handful of blocks from his place. Pumping gas, like a normal person. Like twenty-four hours ago I wasn't tied up in a trunk with a corpse. Like last night I wasn't a second and a half from bleeding out all over that blue mat.

If I hadn't spoken to LaGuerta about it, I wouldn't even believe that he's really dead.

A car pulls in behind mine, and inside it the driver is looking at me like he's thinking about honking. I clear my throat, straighten my blazer automatically as I walk back to the driver's side and plop back into my seat. I glance in the mirror, first at the guy in the SUV, then at myself.

I look like I'm just going in to work, but, then again, what are you supposed to wear to the suicide scene of your dead serial killer fiancé? Black on black on black? Red logo'd t-shirt? Fucking yoga pants?

I just want to look normal, and I need everyone at the scene to see me that way, after so many of them saw me last night.

I turn over the engine, pull out of the gas station.

The truth is, underneath the shell shock I'm terrified to go back there, to... see him again, even if he is dead. But I have to go. I have to see it for myself, because it's not enough just to hear it. I need to know that he's dead, for certain.

I just don't understand why. Because he didn't manage to kill me? Because he didn't want to be caught and dragged in like the animal he is? Because he knew he'd've faced the needle?

It doesn't seem like something he would do, but then again I never actually knew shit about him. And, really, I don't care why he did it. It's just a relief to know that he's gone.

When I turn the corner, I see them all clogging up the street: patrol cars and news vans, a whole horde of lookiloos, cops, reporters. I take a hard breath, let it go. I can't help myself, I remember all those times he sat beside me while I was driving down this road to drop him home, all those times I kissed him good night, when we walked out onto that beach, sat on the concrete barrier to look at the inner harbor and talk. It was all a lie, every second of it, and now he's dead and I'm not and I'm here to see his cold, dead body and our lives are spread all over the news.

There isn't a word to describe how absolutely ass fucked this is.

Clenching my jaw, I pull in past the news van, park right behind the coroner. I feel that lightness evaporate as I kill the engine, click off the seat belt. All the sounds seem to rush back as I reach in the center console, grab my shield and pull it over my neck, slide it below my collar, flip my hair back over it. When it's settled I yank out my keys and push open the door. The lightness is being replaced by something hard and stony, something almost a little cruel. Because he's there just a handful of yards away, and I'm going to see him. His fucking corpse.

I shove my keys into my pocket as I head for the sidewalk. When I look over, I spot Dexter on the opposite side of the walkway heading toward me. We must've arrived here at the same time.

But neither of us say anything when we meet each other, just silently turn and walk toward Rudy's— Brian's apartment together. He's holding a case. I wonder vaguely if that's for evidence collection, but I don't ask.

Instead I just keep my gaze straight ahead on the front door, try to ignore all the people gathered around the tape, gawking and taking pictures like this is some sordid fucking red carpet. I don't know how many of them have figured out who I am, but I know it's just a matter of time before they know I'm the Victim returning to the scene of the crime, come to see what's left of her former lover, her would-be murderer. We're halfway up the street when I finally hear someone call out, “Officer Morgan!”

I glance at my brother, but he looks like he's thousands of miles away, a weird partial smile pulling at his face. I don't have the slightest idea what he's thinking about. When I called him about the Ice Truck Killer being dead, he barely had anything to say. Maybe he's as stunned as I am, too lost in everything that's happened these last couple days to focus, but I don't know, and it's not the time to ask. As it is I can feel my heart thumping harder with every forward step, wondering what the hell I'm about to see. LaGuerta didn't tell me _how_ he killed himself.

And then I'm at the front door. And then I'm passing through the hall, past an enormous Santa head suspended over a door, past about ten uniforms. And then I'm at the front door. It's wide open.

The first thing I see is the blank space where that graphite sketch used to be hanging, the second is LaGuerta and the new LT and a knot of detectives standing in the kitchen, and the third is the door.

That weird fucking door dividing the two halves of the kitchen. The one I asked about. The one he steered me away from.

It's wide open.

And inside there's cold air swirling around in front of clean tile walls.

( _oh jesus_ )

I freeze there in the doorway, feel my mouth fall open. I don't think I uttered the oath but I honestly don't know.

“You alright?” I hear Dexter's voice somewhere ten thousand miles away.

“Uh huh,” I lie, then force myself forward. When I glance right I see everyone looking at me, probably waiting for me to fucking fall to pieces.

“Morgan,” LaGuerta says, walking toward me. Big surprise she's the first to get in my way. Somehow I know he's in there, where he... where he fucking— “Are you sure you want to be here?” she cuts through the pounding in my ears. ( _my heart_ )

I look at her, but it's like my eyes can't quite focus on her. Suddenly I realize it's as hot as the surface of Venus in here. “Is he in there?” I ask, ignoring her question and indicating the door. And of course he must be. I don't see him hanging from the rafters anywhere.

She shifts a little more in front of me, blocking my way to the door, but I can still see it over her head. “You really shouldn't be here.”

It's a thousand fucking degrees and my heart is banging against my ribs and I can't seem to get any air. I look down at my former LT. “This is fucking exactly where I need to be.” And before she can say anything else, I shift past her, head for the door.

By the time I get there I can't breathe anymore, but it doesn't matter. I can't hesitate. I go inside and I...

I...

( _oh my god_ )

He's...

“Jesus,” I whisper.

Upside down. He's upside down.

“Morgan?”

There's a knife on the ground. Blood.

His blood.

( _He hung them up like meat_ )

_Her tears are rolling up._

“Deb.”

Something is roaring in my ears as I step forward. There's a hand on my arm but it doesn't register, doesn't matter. There are other people in here but they don't matter either. He's hanging upside down. He's dead. He killed himself with that knife.

I step around the thing he's hanging from. Look at his face.

Feel something inside me crack into shards.

_Jesus._

He...

My gaze slides down, hits on the thing below him.

It looks like a fucking turkey tray.

He hung himself up, slit his throat with a dinner knife, caught his blood with a turkey tray.

_A fucking turkey tray._

( _to keep everything neat to catch the blood so it wouldn't make a mess_ )

I stare at him. The roaring is so loud I barely feel oriented to the Earth anymore. He's just fucking hanging there. He's fucking _dead._ Like a goddamn fucking goose.

Fury erupts, rises like magma up my throat.

Fury and something else. Something that feels weirdly like grief.

I want to pick up that knife and stab him with it.

_He's dead. He fucking killed himself. That fucking coward. That impotent fucking bastard. That..._

_Jesus._

My entire body seems to shudder as I suck in a breath. I can't tear my eyes off his face.

( _he's dead he's just dead how can he be dead how can it all be over how can I_ )

“Deb.”

( _how do I how the fuck why did he_ )

“Hey.”

( _oh god oh jesus_ )

“Debra.”

A hand on my shoulder. I jerk, look blankly at the face staring at me. It takes a second. Dexter.

Brother. “You alright?”

I stare. What kind of stupid fucking question is that? But I can't seem to get myself to say anything.

“I don't think you should see this.”

There is no one on the face of this entire fucking steaming shithole of a planet who should be seeing this more than me.

“Why don't we—”

A question pops into my head, spills out of my mouth, “How long has he been here?”

He pauses. “I don't know.”

I stare at him for a beat, and then I look around. I know I saw someone else in here.

I end up finding Masuka, standing in the corner. He's looking at me like he's never looked at me before. Not a trace of that annoying grin. Not anywhere. “How long has he been here?” I ask again, this time to him.

He glances nervously at Dexter, then back at me. “Uh...”

“How long?” I ask for the third time, taking a step toward him, a step closer to Rudy.

“A, uh, a couple hours. It's... hard to know, with the freezer.”

He somehow got from that house up north to here.

So he could slit his throat over a goddamn turkey tray.

His final fuck you.

“How the hell did he even fucking get in here?” I ask. “Wasn't anyone sitting on this place?”

Masuka just looks at me helplessly. “I don't know.”

I turn to stare back down at Rudy's body. The outlines of his ribs pushing against his shirt, the way his arms are hanging there. His face.

The whole bottom of his jaw, his neck are all covered with blood, dried and brown.

Because he cut his own throat.

I don't understand any of it. Not a moment of it. Nothing makes any fucking sense anymore.

How the fuck did he get here?

Why did he target me?

Why did he leave me on that table for so long? What was he waiting for?

Why am I still alive?

How can he just be dead?

“Deb.”

“Who found him?” I ask, still staring. I'm not sure if I imagined Dexter's voice, don't care.

There's a pause, then, “Neighbors saw the door open, the tape on the ground, called it in.”

No one was in the building. He just came in.

I glance at Masuka. He's not the one to be asking about this. Of course he wouldn't be. He's just the lab geek, here to clean up what little mess Rudy left here for us. Pretty soon the coroner's gonna be in to unstrap him from the...

The thing he used to hang those women.

 _Her tears are rolling up_.

I suck in a breath, nodding, gaze falling back to his face. I can't fucking watch them... take him down.

And I just don't understand how he even fucking got here.

( _he's dead_ )

He looks so damn small hanging there below me, so quiet. But everything he did. I can still feel it all there, ready to crash back over me in a moment.

And as I stand here I almost want to say something to him, some kind of a last word, but there just isn't anything to say. I can't think of anything. All I can seem to hear is the sound of my own muffled screams echoing around in my head.

So I leave him, walk away, head for the freezer door. Masuka gets out of my way as I pass, but I don't look at him. The second I exit I zero in on LaGuerta. She's standing by the door talking to Pascal. Distantly, it registers that Doakes isn't here.

“How the hell did he get in here?” I cut through their conversation as I approach. All that fury is still boiling in my chest.

Both of them look at me. Pascal is the one to reply. “We're still trying to sort that out,” she says.

So I look at her. “You're telling me you had half the fucking state looking for him, and he was somehow able to get into his own fucking apartment without anyone seeing? The fucking _neighbor_ was the one to call this in.”

“It was a gross oversight.”

“Oh.” I exhale, shake my head. “A fucking oversight?” I point behind me, at that industrial freezer. “He's dead in his own apartment, in his own fucking...” I search for a word, “playroom. Who knows how long he was here. We could have _caught_ him.”

LaGuerta's glaring at me mutinously. I can practically feel her dying to talk over Pascal. In any other situation it'd be satisfying.

“All I can offer are my condolences,” is what our new LT comes up with. “You're right. We slipped up. It shouldn't have ended like this. We'll be launching an internal review.”

“An internal review?” I repeat. “That's just...” I don't know. “Great.” I start to walk away. I can't be here anymore, can't be in this apartment for another fucking second. I can feel him everywhere.

“Officer Morgan.”

I stop, look back at Pascal.

“Take the holiday off. But I'd like you to come in next Monday to discuss what happened and about how we're going to move forward.”

I almost want to argue with her, ask her what's wrong with this evening, as if the holiday means jackshit to me. But instead I nod, walk out the door.

As I go I know this is the last time I'll ever see him— Rudy. Orphaned serial killers don't have funerals or gravestones. They get burned and ground down to dust, dumped in a baggie and stuck on a shelf somewhere. Like a bag of dirt.

And I had nothing to say to him.

I ignore the officers in the hall as I walk back down it. When I reach the door to the outside I yank it open, am immediately greeted by the circus beyond the tape. There are more people here now than there were when I came in. More reporters, more news vans, more gawkers, more cameras. All pointed at the door. At me.

Swallowing, I stride down the line of tape, keeping my gaze arrow-straight ahead, at some building on the opposite shore, while reporters take my picture.

As I walk away.

As I leave him behind.

Hanging dead over that goddamn turkey tray.

 


	81. Shelves of Plastic Buckets

_ _

_Shelves of Plastic Buckets  
_ _Setting: Post-Season_

* * *

 **EVIDENCE ROOM HOURS  
** **10am – 6pm  
** **AUTHORIZED** **ENTRY ONLY**

I stop and stare at the little placard, and for the second time since I got here I think about turning around. I shouldn't be here— I don't need to do this —but some darker, vaguely masochistic impulse drove me here, and it won't let me go. When I left his apartment, all I could think about was home, trading all the public scrutiny for a little peace, for another, longer shower and my couch and possibly some delivery and definitely something to drink, but when I stopped at the intersection I cut across the lane, turned right instead of left, barely knowing why.

Because even though it's over, even though I saw him dangling in that rack like a fucking piece of meat, it isn't _finished._ I'm not finished. I can't be, not until I see everything they pulled out of his place, everything I missed.

All of it's sitting a couple yards away, on the other side of this wall.

My heart is a hard, pulsing bead in my throat as I step forward, reach for the knob, and open the door. When I walk in, the uniform on the other side of the cage looks up at me, and I watch his brows arch. It honestly wouldn't surprise me if he's guessed from looking at me why I'm here.

“Hey, Gallagher,” I open, my tone bordering on forced.

“Morgan,” he says it with obvious surprise, and then he starts opening his mouth like he wants to ask me something.

“I'm here to look at some evidence,” I prematurely cut off whatever it is.

There's a pause. “Got a case number?”

I don't even have to think to recite it: “F1 38 67 56.”

There's a longer pause. He glances at me, fingers hovering over his keyboard. “The Ice Truck Killer evidence,” he says eventually. It's not a question.

“Yeah.”

“You have a request form?”

He knows damn well that I don't. “No.”

For another protracted second, he looks up at me. I don't have much of a relationship with the guy. Hell, the only reason I know his name is from other trips down here, a couple words of small talk, and I'd imagine that up until two days ago that would've been all he could've said about me too. But now he's staring at me with the kind of concern that seems foreign on a near-stranger's face.

“Anyone know you're down here?”

I could lie, but that would be undone in a phone call. “No.” And even though that look on his face is kind of pissing me off, I set my palms on the table, look down at him.

He doesn't say anything, but I have a feeling he might listen.

“But I can't just fucking... walk away from all this.” That rawness is still there, covered by a wisp-thin veneer. “I have to see what was in that freezer.”

He looks like he wants to say no. Part of me is almost hoping he will, because all of me is afraid of what and how much is sitting on those shelves, but I won't have any peace of mind until I know. Already the possibilities are blurring together, some formless mash-up of every picture and every crime scene and every shitty fucking horror movie I've ever seen, and I know it's only going to get worse.

But after a beat Officer Gallagher stands up, looks around as if we aren't the only two in here, as if ninety-five percent of the station isn't either off work with their families or helping to wrap up the Ice Truck Killer's final scene, and he says, “I'll go with you.”

There's something intensely violating about the idea, but I'm not going to argue with him.

“Thanks,” I return quietly as he exits his little area and heads across from me to evidence holding.

He opens the door when he gets there, looks back at me. “It's the least I can do.” He seems to hesitate over a thought, but whatever it is he swallows it, just smiles somewhat nervously at me as I pass.

I don't prompt him. In his position I can only imagine the amount of tactless thoughts that would've been streaming through my head, and I don't want to hear him voice any of them. “Where is it?” I ask instead.

He pauses again, looking more uncomfortable by the moment. Maybe it's finally sinking in what I'm asking of him, just how many departmental policies he's breaking by letting me step foot in here. But finally the words fall haltingly out of his mouth. “There's, uh...” He clears his throat. “Everything that wasn't taken upstairs is on shelf five.” He nods in that direction. My gaze follows it and sticks there on that row of nondescript boxes. “The rest is, uh...”

Eventually I realize he's stopped talking, but frankly I don't know if it's been a second or five minutes. “What?” I look back at him. My voice sounds unfamiliar, throaty.

“The rest is in cold storage.”

Immediately my focus goes left, zeroes in on the steel door. Miami Metro's own little frozen section for biological, non-corpse storage.

Of course his shit would've been moved from one freezer to another. The thought hadn't even occurred to me.

My heart's pounding harder, a growing cloud of fear's numbing half the sensation out of my limbs. A question pops into my head and I think I ask it, “Did you find another girl in there?” Or that prostitute's missing arm? ( _what was her name? Monique?_ )

( _he killed her that night we_ )

“There weren't any bodies recovered,” I hear him say.

I'm starting to walk toward the door. My breath's heavy in my lungs. “What about body parts?” I still barely recognize my voice.

“Not exactly.”

I want to ask what that means, but I don't need to because I'm already there, a moment from knowing. I reach for that steel door, pull it open. “Where?” But my gaze has already caught on a long row of clear, plastic buckets before I've even quite opened the door all the way. On a name blocked out neatly on a strip of yellow masking tape. That handwriting...

SHERRY TAYLOR

The whole world seems to fall away. Something big and white and loud and inescapable clamps around me in its place, sucks away the air. And all I can see are those goddamn buckets, their bloody rims. Because it is blood. I know instantly what those are, what they were used for.

( _he bled out over that goddamn turkey tray_ )

( _hung them up like meat_ )

( _Her tears are rolling up_ )

Marina View and the massacre that wasn't. He stood there with these buckets, lifted them up and dumped them, dunked in the blade of an electric chainsaw and sprayed it all over the walls and that cheap fucking furniture.

I float forward, sink to eye level with all those names.

All those women— several I don't recognize.

How many times have I recited their names?

( _buckets of paint all of them were just canvases all of us_ )

( _would I have gotten my own bucket would he have let it all drain away on that mat_ )

Vaguely I can hear a voice behind me, but I'm too far away, trapped somewhere in the cracks of my fracturing sanity.

I don't know if I'm here or if I'm still wrapped in plastic, laying flat and helpless on that table. I can hear my own screams echoing around in my skull.

The heat of the trunk... the heat in my chest, heavy.

( _Call it an homage_ )

I jump away from something, my whole body shuddering. Suddenly the roaring is gone, I'm standing on the ground, and behind me there's a person.

“Officer Morgan.”

My heart starts pounding again, so hard and suddenly it makes me light-headed. When I look back at... it takes a moment. Gallagher. His hands are up. And at once I realize he touched my arm.

“Are you alright?”

“What kind of fucking question is that?” I find myself murmuring, more to myself than anything. Already I'm looking back at those buckets. At least ten of them. Quick count. Four, eight, eleven.

Shit.

“Are you sure you want to be back here?”

I keep staring at Sherry's name, that clean, familiar block print. I can't remember her face. “Were these all that were taken out of there?”

There's no reply. When I look back at him, he shifts uncomfortably, hands sliding back down to his sides, and at once I imagine that he'd like nothing more than to escort me out of here, never speak to me again. He'll spend the next week asking himself why he let a Victim in to view all the evidence her dead, serial killer fiancé left behind. ( _I said yes_ )

“Was there more in that freezer besides all these fucking buckets?” I repeat. Because now that I'm here I can't leave before I've seen everything.

He's slowly working his fingers into his belt loops, and for some reason I feel bigger than him in my plain clothes. “Just some chemicals, gloves, rubber tubing, uh... knives, but they're being processed.” Pause. “Everything else's in dry storage.”

I look behind him, at the shelving and the rows of boxes and baggies and envelopes in blue, plastic trays. “Shelf five, right?” Another thought I don't know that I really voiced. I move past him, barely breathing, images and words and names smashing around my head.

_Tami Burgess Amy True Alice Curry Sherry Taylor Jill Vastos Rachel Lewis_

( _he was just floating there_ )

( _all that blood_ )

_Cassandra Mendosa Terry Foster Heather Costas Monique Santos_

( _I couldn't breathe_ )

_Debra Morgan_

Shelf five.

My gaze lands on the shelf number. Immediately I skim case numbers on boxes, find the one I want taking up a whole row two up from the bottom. And sitting there in the middle, inexplicably, is some large, pink Barbie box. It says Geenie.

I don't recognize it. ( _this was in his place?_ ) I don't know what it is or why he had it.

“Officer...”

Something within me hums as I reach for it, unclip the toggles, pull it open. For a second it doesn't even register.

Record player. It's a record player.

I reach automatically for the record sitting there, stop just short of touching it. Read the name. Fucking Andy Williams.

( _where the fuck was this?_ )

I set down the case, pull out a box, keep it leaning against the shelf as I lift the lid. Inside are a hundred plastic and brown paper baggies.

My fingers brush plastic.

Some half-present memory rakes its nails down my back, makes my skin crawl.

When I lift a bag I realize I'm holding a Barbie doll.

“The fuck?” I hear myself mutter. I taste something salty in my mouth. My eyes are burning.

( _what—_ )

I clear my throat, drop the thing back inside. I can't grasp a thought. Everything's falling apart.

I want to reach in and tear open those brown paper bags. When I read the labels they're so horrendously mundane— candles, mint tin, keys, jewelry box, digital camera, clothes. Lots of clothes. All of his clothes.

I set the box back on the shelf, reach for another. Inside everything is marked kitchen. Knives, cooking supplies, preservatives, chemicals. I don't know what that means. Rudy wasn't canning fruit.

( _Brian Moser his name was Brian Moser Rudy Cooper is dead he never existed_ )

I swipe at my eyes, reach for another. Pull the lid. Suck in a breath.

There's a hand.

I find myself sinking to my heels with the box, set it down on the concrete. I pull the thing out, hold it, stare at it.

Because it doesn't make any sense.

Because it's a goddamn fucking hand.

Because the nails are painted five different colors.

Did he do this?

Something weird escapes my mouth as I exhale.

It's not real. The arm is hollow and floppy. It's just a prosthetic.

But those fingernails.

The block of ice in the back of that truck. The fingers hanging suspended in some gruesome hello.

They're what landed me the transfer to Homicide to begin with.

“What is this?”

It's awhile before there's a reply, from somewhere behind me. “Honestly, I don't know.” Gallagher clears his throat. “I only log, you know?”

“Right.” I'm still staring at the hand, turning it around and around in its plastic sheath. It scares me in a way I can't explain, not even to myself. I don't know where this came from, don't want to know, have to know.

I can feel my mouth hanging open, tears burning in the corners of my eyes. I sniff, rub at them, set the thing back in the box. And after a beat I look over the edge again, and my gaze catches on something small stuck inside a neatly folded plastic bag.

Something small and familiar.

I pull it out, center the little plastic rectangle between my fingers. The bag crinkles in my hand.

His ID.

I stare at it, at his face. A memory falls out of space. We were sitting on the couch, his first time at my apartment. I unclipped it from his breast pocket, made a comment about the look on his face. Like he was standing for a mug shot or something. And then he asked me for my ID, and when I gave it to him he asked me what was up with the bangs.

I told him to fuck off.

And then we...

“Uh.” I clear my throat, toss it back in the box likes it's poisonous, force myself to feet. “I can't. I...” I put the lid back on, pick it up and shove it back onto the shelf. When I turn back, Gallagher is staring at me with a look I don't bother to interpret. I have to get out of here. I have to get some air. I have to run. “I have to go. I— Thank you.”

I don't wait for a reply. Just head for the chain link door, force it open.

Why did I come here? What the fuck did I expect to accomplish?

I go out the next door, turn for the stairs, practically fall over my feet, catch myself on the rail.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Why did I come here?

Those names keep repeating in my head as I run down the steps. I can't unsee those goddamn buckets.

Can't stop imagining my own name written in his clean block print on a strip of masking tape.

Can't quite catch my breath.

 


	82. It's a Wonderful Life

_ _

_It's a Wonderful Life  
_ _Setting: Post-Season_

* * *

_Buffalo Gals can't you come out tonight; can't you come out tonight; can't you come out tonight..._

My gaze crawls back to the TV screen, lands somewhere on Jimmy Stewart's striped shirt.

... _And dance by the light of the moon..._

I stare at them blankly. I haven't seen this movie in... I don't know. A long time. Christmas was the only holiday Dad ever put any effort into after Mom died, but he's been gone almost eleven years and Dex and I never bothered keeping up what was left of the tradition.

When I inhale I can smell turkey and something sweet, probably the sticky buns Rita made this morning. She offered me one when we arrived, and it's still sitting half-eaten on the coffee table. I didn't have the appetite for it.

_Do I look as funny as you do?_

_I guess I'm not quite the football type..._

It's Christmas Day, quarter to six. Rita and Dexter are in the kitchen, Cody's wandering around the house directing a new remote-control car under the furniture, and Astor's sitting next to me on the couch reading a thick, blue book. When I asked what it was, she told me it was Harry Potter and that it's her fifth time reading it. I couldn't come up with something to say before she disappeared back behind it.

Meanwhile I'm just sitting here, curled in the corner, half-pretending to watch the movie. Rita said there was nothing I needed to do, insisted I relax and make myself at home.

She feels sorry for me.

Rita, whose abusive, shit-stain ex-husband landed himself back in prison just in time for the holidays.

The knowledge keeps pounding down, piercing through the numbness.

I don't belong here.

Not that I can even keep myself here.

Every time I close my eyes I'm standing in that freezer again, looking down at him. The man that was once so terrifying suddenly seemed so small and harmless, hanging there with his arms swung down and his throat slit open. All the little details in his face are etched into my memory: a big, fat, inescapable landmine sitting on the surface.

And a few days ago I loved him, was imagining us... was imagining myself...

I rub my eyes. I can't even make myself complete the thought in my own head.

I don't know if it was a mistake to see him, but I'm sure that going to evidence lock-up yesterday was. I didn't need to see all the names on those buckets. We knew about barely half of those girls. Who knows how many more never warranted a bucket, or how many had their blood drained away before he thought to start collecting. I doubt we'll ever know, but that hasn't stopped me from guessing. I couldn't imagine having to make a notification when there's nothing but an empty bucket of blood with a name on a strip of tape.

How many did he murder since we met? I keep trying to remember all the nights I didn't see him, if there was something there the next morning I should've seen. But it makes me sick to even look back. I can't erase... I can't pretend I didn't feel anything, can't forget all those things I said to him in confidence.

Some fucking cop I am.

( _The other women I could just pay_ )

( _You made it easy_ )

I shift my feet under me, swallow, look back at the TV. But his voice is still there in my ear, phantom arms around my neck.

( _So desperate to fall in love._ )

I inhale, force myself to listen.

_What is it that you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down._

I clear my throat, slowly take another breath to steady myself, reach up to rub my neck. When I do I notice Astor looking over at me shyly, her book sagging. A small, reflexive smile springs to my face, but I don't really know what to say. I don't know if Rita told them anything or if, god fucking forbid, they saw something on the news.

She glances toward the kitchen, then back at me. “Can I ask you something?” she asks quietly, obviously not wanting anyone else to hear.

“Uh, yeah, alright,” I say.

Another hesitation, another glance toward the clattering in the kitchen. In the background I can hear Jimmy Stewart rambling about something. Finally, “Were you the one who arrested my dad again?”

I stop a 'What?' from popping out of my mouth. “No.” I shake my head, let my hand slide down and off my neck. “No, that wasn't me.” I can barely remember how I even found out. It was before Batista's stabbing. Dexter told me. That was when I'd been pissed at him over Rudy— ( _christ_ )

“But you know why he was arrested?” She's staring at me openly now. Probably trying to figure out if I'm the enemy or not.

“Yes, I do, but...” I trail off, look toward the kitchen myself. Rita and Dexter are talking and chopping over a metal bowl— neither of them can rescue me. I guess that was the point. “I'm sorry, it's not my place to talk about it,” I say eventually.

“Why not?”

Great, I'm getting grilled by a fourth grader. “If your mom hasn't told you, she wouldn't want anyone else to.”

That doesn't seem to mollify her. If anything, she just looks disappointed.

I exhale, move forward a bit. “Would it really help to know exactly why?”

She shrugs, stares down at a point on the couch.

I glance in Rita's direction again, not sure what or if I should say anything else. “Your dad's been in trouble for a long time.” I probably shouldn't keep talking. “It just… caught up to him.”

She doesn't look up. “But he said he wasn't going to do that anymore. I made him promise. He said he wasn't ever going to go back to jail.”

I can't quite hide the scowl. Paul's a worthless sack of shit and he never should've been released. The fact that he managed to stay clean just long enough to convince his kids that he could be a real father to them pisses me off.

But I can't voice any of that. “Sometimes people just aren't who they say they are,” I offer lamely.

Finally she looks up at me again, but now that she has, I kind of wish she hadn't. She looks like she's seconds from tears. “Did he just not love us enough?”

Jesus fuck I am in way over my head. “No, of course your dad loves you. You're the most important thing in his life.” I wish I believed that. “It's just... he wasn't strong enough to change. You understand?”

She shakes her head, but before I can come up with anything else to say, she moves over to me, presses herself against my side in a sort of half-hug. After a second I wrap my arm around her, a weird pang going through my chest.

Some of the tension melts away, but if anything I feel more vulnerable. Tears burn at my eyes, and I blink them away, scrape at them with my free hand, take a breath. I'm such a broken fucking mess.

Astor lets go of me and reaches for her book again, but she's still leaning against me as she goes back to reading. I wonder if she's picked up on my mood, if that's not the other reason she's doing this.

With another breath I look back at the TV, try to force myself to listen to it.

_I'll go further than that. I'll say that to the public Peter Bailey was the Building and Loan._

_Oh, that's fine, Potter, coming from you, considering that you probably drove him to his grave._

_Peter Bailey was not a business man. That's what killed him..._

( _the trunk_ )

I inhale sharply. I feel trapped sitting here.

And I'm just so goddamn tired.

And I can feel myself back in that trunk again, working to loose the tape off my mouth. I kept slamming my feet against the side until my bones jarred, until they felt electrified. Every time Brian Moser took a turn the body would roll into me, and the smell of the foreign aftershave and the carpet cleaner and the heat and the fear was driving me to insanity. And then I finally managed to get the tape off my mouth...

“Are you sad too?”

I look down at Astor, clear my throat. “Uh...” Fear and something else are twisting my organs into knots. “No, I'm okay.” I clear my throat again. “But, I think I need some fresh air, alright?”

She pushes off me, leans back into the couch again. I don't know if the break in contact makes me feel better or worse. “Okay.”

“Okay,” I murmur to myself, getting up. I grab my purse that's sitting on the end table by the door, open it and dig through it until I locate a cigarette and a lighter, and then I open the door and step out. Walk past the ceramic wall out through the front lawn and stop against the hood of my brother's car. He drove me here.

My hands are shaking as I shove the cancer stick into my mouth, light up. It's not much of a relief but it's something.

I close my eyes, stick the lighter in my pocket.

Hear the sound of the door opening. Closing. Footsteps.

When I open my eyes again, Dexter's walking toward me. “You alright?” he asks.

I feel myself smile out of grief, and I look down as I remove the cigarette from my mouth, blow out a breath. “Of course I'm not alright.” I look back up at him. “What the fuck am I even doing here, Dexter?”

I can only half make out his face in the dark. He shrugs. “It's Christmas. You shouldn't be alone.”

“Since when did that make a goddamn bit of difference?” My voice is shaking almost as much as my hands. I sniff and swipe at my eyes again, and this time my fingers come back wet. I stick the cigarette back between my teeth.

“You know it's not about the holiday, Deb.” He walks a little closer. When I say nothing he sighs and turns to lean against the car beside me.

For awhile we both just stand here. I keep pulling on the cigarette, trying to extract some small comfort from it, but that memory is bearing down on me. I can already feel myself buckling under it.

“He put me in that trunk, Dex,” I say, looking straight ahead. “He killed that poor fucking asshole who owned that car, threw his body in the back and put me in there with him. Like I was just another fucking body, a piece of garbage.” I grab the cig again, stare down at it. “How could I not have seen it? How could I never have had the slightest fucking inkling that he...” I gesture at my head, trail off. Sniff and wipe my eyes again. I can't breathe.

“It's not your fault,” he says.

“I'm a fucking cop, a fucking _homicide_ cop.” My breath barks out in a sob. “I've been working this case for months.” I swallow, try to inhale normally, but I choke on it again. “And I was...” I shake my head. I can taste tears and my eyes are burning. “I was _in love_ him.”

“You couldn't have known.”

I turn on him. “It's my fucking _job_ to know.” I can't draw a steady breath. I try to take another drag on the cigarette but it's impossible, so I drop the thing onto the pavement and grind it out. “How could I be so fucking stupid?”

“Deb, you're not. Don't say that.”

I stare at him, keep choking on my breath, push my fingers into my forehead. “I am,” I manage, stepping away, onto the sidewalk, but I don't know where to go. “I am. I fucking am, I...” My fingers move up through my hair, and I'm shaking my head. “I thought I loved him. I was— I don't—” A sob cuts it off. I can't breathe. I can taste tears.

Dexter's off the car, following me, but he stops when I do. “None of this is your fault.”

I draw another strangled breath. “That girl is dead because of me, that man is dead because of me.” I swallow again, sob again. “Who knows how many more people he killed while I knew him and I never fucking...” another sob, “I never fucking...”

“Deb.” He's standing a few feet away.

I don't know if I want to turn toward or away from him. My nose is starting to run. I can't. I— “Why am I alive, Dex?” I sob. “Why did I survive? Why did he leave me on that table?” My legs feel weak. I can't breathe. I wipe at my eyes again, choking on every exhale.

And suddenly he has his arms around me. I crush myself against him, sob into his shoulder. I can't escape it. He's dead but it doesn't matter. “Why?” I keep asking it into his shirt. _Why?_

( _I don't understand I don't know why_ )

“I don't think we'll ever know,” he murmurs.

I can't seem to form words anymore. I don't know what to say. I can't draw a normal breath.

“But he's gone, Deb.” For some reason that hurts. “He can't hurt you or anyone else again.”

“That fucking coward,” I sob. “He fucking killed himself.”

“Maybe he just couldn't face it.”

“Fucking bastard.” I swallow again.

He doesn't say anything in reply.

For a long time we just stand here like this under the glow of a bunch of fucking Christmas lights. I can hear Christmas music playing from a neighbor’s house. Across the street there's a tree in one window and a glowing menorah in another.

Slowly my breathing returns to a normal rhythm. Dexter doesn't release me until I push away from him.

“Do you want me to take you home?” he asks as I take a step back, sniffing.

“No.” I shake my head. I don't want to be alone in my apartment again. “No, I'm fine.”

“I can stand out here as long as you want.”

I smile, but this time it's not out of grief. “Actually, Dex, could you give me a minute?”

His brows dip ever so slightly. “Yeah, sure, if that's what you want.”

“Yeah.” I sniff, gesture toward Rita's house. “Go. I'll be in in a minute.”

“Okay.” He touches my shoulder, then gives me a sort of reassuring smile before turning. I don't move as I watch him head around the wall and open the door, close it quietly behind him.

And I bury my face in my fingertips, suck in a breath. Suck in another.

And then I just... listen to the distant, canny sound of Christmas music. Try to drift away on it.

 


	83. Sleep

_ _

_Sleep  
_ _Setting: Post-Season_

* * *

“Wow, Dex, you really went all out for the holiday.”

My brother stops as he closes the door behind him, follows my gaze to the poinsettia sitting on his desk— the only evidence of life in his otherwise operating room grade, sterile-ass apartment.

“Rita gave it to me,” he says, then bolts the door.

As if I would've thought for a second that he bought it for himself.

Exhaling, I put the the saran wrapped plate and the tin I'm carrying on his counter, then head for the couch. I'm so tired I can barely even think anymore. The episode on the lawn sapped away all the energy I had. I barely made it through dinner.

I toss my purse onto the cushions, drop down right beside it.

And now I'm here, in Dexter's apartment. I can't even fucking remember the last time I was here. Dad's birthday?

“Thanks again for letting me crash here,” I say, stepping on the heel of my shoe and pulling my foot out of it.

“My home is your home,” he flashes me one of his smiles, then heads over to the kitchen, opens the fridge and sets the tupperware he's holding inside. I step out of my other shoe, watching as he sticks the plate I had in the fridge, then carefully scoots the cookie tin to the far left of the counter and centers it. Rita gave us a bunch of food to take home.

I take off my watch, set it on the coffee table. When I look up, Dexter's opening the lid of the tin, and he pulls out a green and grossly misshapen tree before carefully shutting it again.

He notices me looking, “You want one?”

“No,” I shake my head. I ate about as much as I could make myself at dinner, and my stomach's still upset about it, but now that I'm safely out of polite company, I don't want to eat anymore. I have no appetite.

He reaches down and opens a cabinet, pulls out a napkin, closes it again. There's something that's simultaneously comforting and irritating about watching him navigate around his spotless apartment. That was the one thing we always use to fight about when Dad died and it was just me and him sharing a two bed. It's almost like I became slovenly just to make up for the borderline OCDness of it all. I'd keep making messes and eventually he'd just give up on cleaning them up after me.

But there's something reassuring about the fact that that hasn't changed. For either of us.

I pull off my socks, throw those on the other side of the arm rest, toss my shoes in that general direction too. Then I lean down, pinch the bridge of my nose, screw my eyes up against the headache that's pulsing just in the background. I'm so tired I couldn't even describe it. When was the last time I slept?

“I'll go get you some sheets.” I drop my arms, look at him as he eats half the cookie in one bite, then brushes his hands off over the sink. “You want the comforter?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He nods, walks into the hall and pulls open the big, built-in cabinet. Wearily, I force myself up and over to him, watch over his shoulder as he rifles through stacked bedding. He's already got a pillow and folded sheets under an arm.

I guess what he's doing, “I don't care if they match, Dex.”

He glances back at me, then grabs the first pillowcase off the stack, hands that and the rest to me. I wonder if it physically pained him to do that as I trudge back to the couch, toss everything on the coffee table. In a second he's joined me with a comforter in tow, which he sets on the armrest. And then he just sort of stands there.

“You want me to put on the pillowcase?” he asks after a beat, sounding as awkward as he looks.

“I've got it, Dex,” I say as I start moving the couch pillows to the floor.

“Do you need a shirt to sleep in?”

I pause as I reach for the sheets. “Yeah, thanks.”

He takes off toward his bedroom immediately. Exhaling, I move my purse onto the coffee table, whip the sheet out over the couch, make a half-assed effort at tucking it in before plopping down on top of it. Then I put on the pillowcase, toss the pillow against the armrest, drag the comforter down.

Once the makeshift bed is complete, I reach for my purse again and start digging through it. I take my gun out and set it on the coffee table, toss the cigarette box and a bunch of receipts and a sugar packet and a couple pens next to it, finally locate my contact case and the solution under my wallet.

Leaning forward, I shove all my shit away, set down the case, fill it with the solution, pop out my contacts, put them in and screw the lids closed. And then I sit here, out of things to do. I listen to Dexter in the other room, wondering what's taking so long, though if I had to guess the slowness is probably just his way of creating some space between us.

But I'm already resisting the urge to find the TV remote. Space and silence are the last things I need. That's where he seems to live now.

I'm a second from getting up to get the stupid thing when he finally shows up again, a neatly folded shirt in hand. The moment he comes in his gaze drifts to the mess on the coffee table, stops on the gun, and it's a beat before he actually looks at me. “Found you a shirt,” he says, holding it out.

“Thanks,” I reach up and take it, put it on the comforter.

His hands slip into his pockets. “You want anything?”

“No.”

“Do you need another pillow? More blankets?”

“No, I'm fine.”

He's struggling and it's obvious. “Do you want me to go?”

( _don't leave_ ) I inhale, “Would you mind just... sitting here for a minute with me?”

“Yeah, okay,” he walks over to the chair to my right, slowly sinks into it, slowly blows out a breath.

I shift my foot up and sit on it, watching him. And for some reason a question pops into my head, for maybe the third or fourth time, “He really called you that night?”

“What?” he looks over at me.

“Ru—” I gag on it, try again, “The Ice Truck Killer. You said he called you? That's how you found me?”

Something in his expression tightens. “Yeah, he did.”

That doesn't make any sense to me. “What did he say?”

“He said he was having doubts. He wanted me to meet him.” His arms slide into his lap. “You really want to hear the specifics?”

“No,” I shake my head. But I don't get it. There was nothing he did to me that wasn't... deliberate. Never a pause, never a second of doubt. He ripped away any delusion of empathy when he mocked me as I laid duct-taped at his feet.

But he called Dexter?

When? Before or after he stuck the second needle in my neck?

“Why would he do that?” I ask.

“I don't know,” he shrugs. “I guess we'll never know.”

I stare at him, a new, awful thought twisting in my core. “Did he talk to you? At the house?”

He doesn't say anything for a beat, then, “No. I walked in just before...” he stops.

“Before he was going to stab me?” I finish for him. It almost surprises me that I feel nothing as I say it.

“Yeah.”

“Guess his doubts didn't last very long.” Or maybe he had some other reason for luring my brother there. Would he have killed him too if half the station hadn't shown up two seconds after he did?

“Are you sure you want to talk about this?”

I snort softly, shrug, “I'm not sure of shit.”

Again he lets the silence spread for a few moments as he studies me. “Just give it some time,” he says eventually. “You'll get through this.”

“Will I?” I don't know if I'm challenging him or repeating him.

“Yes,” he gets up, sticks his hand on my shoulder. “And I'll be right here with you.”

I smile a little, “Thanks, Dex.” The exhaustion is starting to drag me down.

His hand slides off and he takes a step back. “I can stay here as long as you want.”

I almost want to ask him to wait to leave until I fall asleep, but I don't want to admit that I'm that afraid— to him or to myself. “Actually, I think I'm gonna try to sleep.”

He nods. “I'll be in the other room then.”

I nod back. There's an impulse to get up and hug him again, but I don't think I could stand. All my limbs feel simultaneously too heavy and disconnected, like they're attached with strings or something. But as he walks away that fear's already creeping back in. “Can you get the lights?” I ask, trying to shove down the feelings.

“Yeah,” he stops at the switch and flips it. Half the apartment's immediately thrown into this weird, pale blue. It never seems to actually get dark in here— I've always thought it must somehow be from reflections off the pool or the bay. “Night, sister.”

“Night.”

I watch as he disappears into his bedroom, shuts the door quietly behind him. And then my gaze drifts left, lands on the drapes. They're not closed.

I want to ignore it but I can't. It shouldn't bother me but it does.

A fucking seagull will cast a shadow over the curtains and I'll jump.

Exhaling, I force myself to my feet, go over and rip the damn things closed. It almost makes me feel better. Almost.

Then I go back to the couch, undress and let everything fall where it does, reach for the shirt Dexter gave me and slip it over my head. It's way too large, probably at least a size or two too big even for him, and when I glance down I can see a logo printed on the left side of it— a caduceus wrapped around a scale, encircled by the words AMERICAN ACADEMY OF FORENSIC SCIENCE.

I wonder what boring ass conference he got it from as I finally lie down on my back and close my eyes, but my thoughts rapidly drift away from the shirt. I can't sleep in this position but I don't want to do that yet anyway.

I didn't sleep last night. I couldn't stand being in my own bed. I kept feeling some phantom compression on the mattress, kept seeing him looming in the shadows. Neither the knowledge nor the image of his dead body made any difference to me. It didn't make any sense that he'd kill himself before finishing me off, and it still doesn't. I'm half afraid it was all an illusion, that I hallucinated it or he somehow fabricated his own corpse, because I don't believe it could really all be over. In the span of a day he turned into a monster, and by the end of the second he turned into a dead person.

I ended up giving up, dragging myself to the couch to watch infomercials and a movie. I kept thinking I'd eventually fall asleep, but I kept straining to hear something beyond the TV every time I got close, some hint of intrusion. And then the sun rose. And then I had three cups of coffee, started thumbing through the ITK file I'd left in my car that night. At some point I finally fell asleep propped against the couch armrest with the file on my lap, woke up less than two hours later to knocking on my door.

It was Dexter. Fucker was standing there with a plastic plate full of cookies and something he'd picked up from a taco truck. He'd come to deliver Rita's Christmas dinner invitation, planted himself on my couch until I finally agreed to leave with him.

But I wouldn't have told him no anyway. I don't know what I would've done if he hadn't shown up, or if I had convinced him to go without me. Probably would've ended up tracking him down. I couldn't have stood my empty apartment, couldn't have taken another night alone. I think I've slept three hours in the last two days, and before that I was just unconscious, buried under a thousand tons of concrete from whatever I was being injected with.

It's a relief to be laying here on this couch with my brother so close. It reminds of all those times as a kid I used to sneak into his bedroom and sleep on the floor. I kept getting these dreams that the house was filling up with water, that it filled up the whole room and I was drowning in it and I couldn't get to the door.

Somehow just having him there made me feel better, even though I'm pretty sure he never knew I was there.

I roll to my side, stare at a small glint of light on the TV screen. Nearby I can hear Dexter walking around his bedroom.

And somehow that's still enough for me to relax.

Slowly, I reach for the comforter, pull it up to my shoulder. Feel myself drift away to the sounds of his footfalls and the steady hum of the air conditioner.


	84. Coffee and a Bag of Dougnuts

_ _

_Coffee and a Bag of Doughnuts  
_ _Setting: Post-Season_

* * *

I stop in front of the door, adjust my purse over my shoulder, switch the bag of doughnuts to a different hand. I've been having imaginary conversations with him since I called, kept asking myself why I did it to begin with, but in the time it's taken to get here I don't feel any closer to an answer.

Because it's not just about seeing how he's doing. I have to know if this is my fault— how much of this is my fault.

Nervously, I move the bag to my purse hand again, reach up with the other to knock. “I'm coming,” I hear through the door almost immediately. “Hold on.” The sound of his voice sends a small ping of anxiety flitting through my guts.

Batista opens the door. “Deb,” he says. And then for some reason he hugs me. The movement is so sudden I flinch away, and it's a half a second before I hug him back. The bag crinkles against his shirt. “I'm glad to see you're okay,” he says, his breath puffing into my hair. He backs off, but one of his hands is still on my arm. “I'm sorry I didn't see you at the hospital. I was a little laid up here.”

Suddenly I feel close to tears. “Uh, no, I wasn't expecting you to.” I clear my throat, force them back. I feel so fucking guilty. I _am_ guilty. “I wasn't even sure you were out of the hospital before I called.” What am I doing here?

“Just a couple stitches.” He grins at me. Somewhere behind me in the hall I can hear a TV. “Don't even need the pain pills no more.”

The guilt crashes against my insides like a breaking wave. “Really?”

He shrugs slightly, still grinning. “Well, maybe a little.” And then he moves aside. “Come in.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, stepping past him. Whatever I'd been bracing for doesn't seem to be coming.

“What's that you're holding?” He walks away from the door without locking it.

“Uh, doughnuts.” I waggle the bag. “Went to that place my brother always goes to.”

“Oh, that's great.” He's still grinning. “Nina's had me on oatmeal and cottage cheese. Think it's almost as bad as the crap they were giving me at the hospital.”

“Nina?” Hearing her name kind of surprises me, but then again I remember his ex being there in the waiting room with us. “So are you guys...” I trail off, wait for him to fill in the gap.

The smile slips. “I don't know.” There's a pause, but he brings it back. “Why don't I make some coffee to have with those doughnuts?”

I'm definitely not gonna press. “Sounds great,” I say. I stop on the other side of the counter as Batista walks into his kitchen and grabs the pot out of the coffee machine.

“I'm glad you called,” he says. “Doakes called to tell me they got you out alright, but it's good to see you in person.” He flips up the faucet handle, starts filling the pot with water. “I'm just sorry I couldn't be there that night.”

I'm not. He's one of the only cops I work with every day who didn't see me lying on that table, drugged and trussed up like a turkey.

“So how're you?” he asks, saving me from having to find a response.

“I'm alright,” I reply with a shrug. I have no idea if it's coming across quite as nonchalant as I was aiming for. “Good, even, considering the circumstances.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that,” he says, then kills the faucet. It looks like he's got enough water in there to make about twenty cups of coffee. His face twists awkwardly as he looks at me, and he quickly sets the pot on the counter and pops open the filter compartment. I resist the urge to prompt him, and it's not until he's picked up and tossed the used filter under the sink that he finally looks at me again. “I've, uh, seen some of the news reports. I'm sorry you have to go through that. Those reporters are such insensitive cocksuckers.”

I wonder if he's referring to that particularly unflattering analysis of me and the Ice Truck Killer on channel 5 that I caught a few sound bytes of this morning before I flipped off the TV, went for a run to get away from it. “Give it a couple weeks, nobody'll even fucking remember who I am,” I say, waving it off.

“Yeah, you're probably right.” He's humoring me.

I watch him stick a new filter in the compartment and scoop out a couple spoonfuls of pre-ground coffee. A question is niggling at me, the question that drove me here to begin with, but I can't quite get myself to voice it yet.

Instead I glance around his place. It's up ten floors with another thirty above it, looks completely unlike him aside from the huge leather chair that's paralleling the TV and a couple knick-knacky things dotted around. My guess is he got it pre-furnished, bought some of the lamps and the tables and the bar stools I'm standing next to at Home Depot or something. The only thing that makes it look lived in are all the Christmas decorations— lights bordering all the windows, an unlit tree in the corner, stockings hanging off the back of the couch, a nativity scene spread all over an end table.

Seeing all this shit makes me smile for some reason. “You have your daughter over for Christmas?”

“Yeah.” When I look back at him, he's lit up. “Nina and Auri came over yesterday to open presents. So much has been different lately, what with the...” slight pause, “the separation. It was important we spend the holiday together.”

I nod, still sort of smiling.“What'd you get her?”

His grin broadens, and for several long, blissful minutes we talk about his kid and nothing else. The coffee brews and we fill a couple mismatching mugs, bring them and the bag of doughnuts and a couple pieces of paper towel with us to the living area. Batista plops into the leather chair, wincing slightly, and I take the couch. It's more comfortable than it looks.

“So what's on your mind, Deb?” he asks finally as I'm sipping coffee. “I know you didn't come here just to discuss Auri.”

“You're right,” I admit. I slowly set the mug on my thigh. But it takes a second before I can voice it. “I heard who stabbed you,” I say.

All that lightness seems to drain away, from both of us.

“I just— fuck, I don't know...” I trail off. “I just wanted to apologize. If I hadn't...” What? Started dating the fucking Ice Truck Killer? “gotten involved with him, he wouldn't have gone after you.”

“Hey.” He puts his mug on the coffee table, catches my eyes. The softness in his gaze hurts. “Don't blame yourself for what happened. Who knows, I might've ended up meeting him even if you never heard of that asshole.”

I stare at him. What the fuck is he talking about? “What?”

“Oh, you don't know what happened.” I'm gripping my mug with both hands as he shifts in his seat. “That hooker you found all chopped up in Santa's Cottage, Monique Santos? I met her a couple days before at a club. I noticed her coz she had a prosthetic hand with her nails painted just like those freaky fingertips we found in the back of that ice truck back in October.”

I inhale sharply. That fucking hand in the box in evidence lock-up.

“I asked Masuka if he knew anyone I should talk to about it and he directed me to Rudy.” My molars slam together. “Sorry, Brian Moser,” he corrects himself. Maybe he noticed. He sits forward a little. “And, you know, maybe it's true Masuka wouldn't have told me to talk to him if you hadn't been dating him, but I might've tracked him down anyway. His name was on file from Tony Tucci.”

I keep staring at him. The tears are back, but I blink them away, swallow the ache in my jaw. “I didn't introduce you?” I ask, trying to comb back through my memories, but it's all too goddamn distorted. I can't think of his face without seeing him looking down at me: at his feet on the floor of that boat, in the trunk of that car, lying flat and tied down and barely lucid on that table.

“No.” He shakes his head, dragging me back. “Don't blame yourself for what happened to me. You know, everything is always a game of dominoes. Who can say which one in the chain is the one that knocked the others over?”

“Don't fucking...” I exhale, shake my head. “Don't feed me metaphors, Angel. I brought him into our lives, into the station. Your daughter almost lost her father because of me.”

“Or I might've met him anyway through a contact at the hospital,” he counters. “If you hadn't been seeing him, maybe he would've shown up a few minutes earlier, maybe he would've killed me before my neighbors walked into the garage.” He pauses, shrugs. “Deb, there're a hundred possible scenarios, but it's in the past, it doesn't matter. I'm sitting here, aren't I?”

“How can you say it doesn't matter?” I ask. His niceness is pissing me off. I don't know how he can stand to even be in the same room with me.

I set the mug on the table and stand up, walk away from the couch for more open space. _Fuck._

I hear the leather sigh as he gets up too, and then after a beat he walks over to me, stops next to the couch— not close, but not too far either.

I drop my hands, look at him. “It matters.”

“Okay, it matters.” But he says it so fucking kindly. “You know, all these years on the force, I've never been so close to following that light, and I'm not gonna tell you that that didn't scare me, coz it did. But...” he shrugs, “there's only one person who's responsible for what happened, and he's dead now.”

I don't know what to say. I feel like such a fucking shitheel. “I'm just so... so fucking sorry,” I say quietly.

“We're both victims here.” He touches my arm, and I suck in a breath. “I met him too. So did Doakes. I'm betting your brother did too?”

It's a beat before I nod. “Yeah.” I swallow. “Yeah, he did.”

“I know maybe it doesn't help, but he fooled everyone. If you want to blame yourself, you might as well blame the rest of us— me and your brother and Doakes, the hospital he worked at, hell, you know, even his other victims. None of us saw through it.”

His voice is in my ear again, arms encircling my throat, way too tight.

( _The other women I could just pay. You made it easy._ )

I lift my hand reflexively to rub away his ghost. Everyone's telling me it's not my fault. I wish he'd just blame me. It'd be so much easier.

( _So desperate to fall in love..._ )

“I don't want you to blame yourself for what happened to me.”

I focus back on Batista. I can feel myself teetering on that edge again.

“But if I can't get you to change your mind, I just want you to know that I don't blame you.” He pauses, adds almost to himself, “Frankly, I'd be a pretty sorry fucking _pendejo_ if I did.”

I smile slightly, and it hurts. “Thanks,” I say after a moment. I open my mouth to say something else, but I don't have the words.

“It's just the truth.” It's his turn to pause. “And if you need to talk about it, I can be an ear for you.”

That hurts too. “I really appreciate that.” I draw an unstable breath. “But, honestly, I'd rather talk about fucking... literally anything else.”

He smiles. “I can do that too.” He tips his head toward the couch, starts walking back to his chair. “You meet the new LT, Pascal?”

The image of LaGuerta's sour expression standing behind her suddenly pops into my head, and it's so clear it makes me bark a laugh. “Yeah.” I follow him to the couch. “LaGuerta looked like she was shitting peach pits.”

He grins, holds the doughnut bag out for me. I reach in and grab the jelly. “I'm meeting with her next Monday,” I say, dropping back onto the couch.

“Wonder if she'll even survive that long,” he says, sitting and pulling out the bear claw.

I shrug. “I'm surprised she got through that first day.” I reach for my coffee, take a sip of it. It's already cooling down. “I'll give her a month before LaGuerta finds a way to get her job back.” I put the mug back down, take a bite of the doughnut.

“I'll give her two.”

Snorting, I grab the paper towel, then I take another bite.

 


	85. Disability

_ _

_Disability  
_ _Setting: Post-Season_

* * *

“Lieutenant.”

As I say it I knock on the open door.

Pascal looks up from behind her newly commandeered desk, and she smiles at me as she stands up. There's a stiffness to it. “Officer Morgan,” she says, walking around the desk. “How are you?”

A distant, sarcastic reply floats into mind, but for once it doesn't come anywhere near my mouth. “I'm alright,” is what I've got. “How're you?”

“I'm great.” She glances past me, out the window, then makes a 'come here' gesture. I follow her gaze, feel a scowl pull my face down. ( _Shit_ ) “Though I do admit I was a little surprised to get your call.”

I look back at her, resisting the urge to cross my arms. “I just want to get this over with,” I say.

“I understand.” And as she says that, LaGuerta walks in, stops about a foot and a half from me. “I know you don't know me very well yet,” Pascal keeps talking, apparently oblivious to the sudden temperature drop, “so I've asked Maria to sit in with us.”

Great. That's just fucking great. “Lieutenant,” I say to my former LT.

“Officer Morgan,” she says in her usual, unpleasant way. “Nice to see you again.”

_Is it?_

Pascal gestures behind me, at the couch. “Why don't we all have a seat?”

“Yeah,” I murmur, walking over to the couch. None of us sit until Pascal's closed the door and dragged a chair away from the desk. LaGuerta takes the chair perpendicular to me, primly crosses her legs and folds her hands on her lap. She looks... I don't know. Constipated.

I drop onto the couch, glance from her to Pascal as she takes her seat across from me. And then for a moment we all just sit here— silenced by the elephant that followed me into the room.

Because it's 10 o'clock Friday morning, not Monday afternoon. I called yesterday to ask we move up the meeting.

A week ago to the minute I was somewhere on the other side of those windows, lost in a giddy haze over the possibility of a marriage proposal, just a handful of hours away from being kidnapped and forced to cope with my own mortality in the face of the black waters of Biscayne Bay.

A whole fucking week. And he's been dead for five of those days— has probably already been burned down to talcum powder, or else is still being stowed on ice across the street, cut open and sewn back shut, an enigma lying in an irony that I'm sure has been lost on exactly no one.

And I still can't sleep.

Finally Pascal speaks. “When you called you said you wanted to know where we go from here,” she says, crossing her legs to mirror LaGuerta, only she's wearing charcoal slacks instead of a prim, pastel skirt.

“That's correct,” I reply. There's a formality to her tone that I don't like.

“Unfortunately before we can proceed with anything, there are some things we need to discuss in reference to the Ice Truck Killer case so we can officially close it.”

A rivulet of cold water runs through my guts. I sit up a little straighter. “Like what?” But I already know what she's going to say.

“I'm sorry to say we need to clear you of any possible involvement.”

My blood seems to retreat from my fingers.

“If you'd like, we can move this to a more formal setting upstairs. We can call a rep up here—”

“No,” I cut her off. “No.” And even though I already know, the question is leaving my mouth, “Are you asking if I was fucking involved with these homicides?”

“Yes,” she says.

I exhale, find myself glancing at LaGuerta and away again. Sitting between them like this I'm trapped here.

Which, of course, is the point.

“I didn't know.” I swallow, look back at her. It's so fucking pathetic to admit it. “I didn't have the slightest fucking clue who he was until he attacked me.”

“But you can understand why we have to ask these questions,” Pascal says.

“Yeah.” I want to shift my legs around, but I don't. My head is starting to hurt again.

“Debra.” I look at LaGuerta, slightly jarred by the use of my first name. “As far as we're concerned, you're not under investigation,” she says. “You were on the clock when four of the victims died.”

 _They checked._ The realization thuds in time with my heart beat. _They checked._

“And I personally don't believe you had anything to do with what happened to Detective Batista, and neither does anyone else in the department.”

( _they checked they checked_ )

( _either I was too stupid to realize or I_ )

Pascal speaks over my thoughts, “But there are a few things we need to talk about, a few things in hindsight which seem a little suspicious.”

I look at her again, set my jaw as I ask her, “What?”

“Are you sure you wouldn't like to have this conversation in the presence of your rep or a lawyer?”

“I didn't know who he was,” I repeat coldly, even as my heart picks up at the mention of the word ‘lawyer.’ “I was just another cop on this case. Maybe that's why he targeted me. I don't know. I guess I'll never know.”

She studies me for a beat. “So you were never involved in any assault or homicide committed by Brian Moser?”

“No.”

“Did you ever give confidential details of the investigation to Brian Moser?”

There I falter. “I... I don't know.”

Something about her seems to sharpen, just a hair. Out of the corner of my eye, I see LaGuerta adjust her arms.

“What do you mean?” Pascal asks.

“I mean I don't know,” I say. “We were dating. I don't know what I might've said to him. At the time he was just my boyfriend. I didn't...” And suddenly I remember what he said about the lozenge wrapper, and suddenly I can taste it on his tongue again. A wash of fear crushes the breath from my lungs, even as I hear myself speaking, “I never even— It didn't occur to me that he was the Ice Truck Killer. He was just... a guy.” I can't mention it. I don't know if it was me who told him.

( _how else could he have known how else who else could’ve told him_ )

“But to the best of your knowledge, you did not?” LaGuerta asks.

I look at her. “No. To the best of my knowledge, I did not.” But I can hear him in my ear again.

( _That's right. That was the one clue the Ice Truck Killer left behind..._ )

“There are some—”

( _I don't often make mistakes, but when I do they haunt me..._ )

His fingers on my chest. He was pulling me back. I didn't know what he was doing. Didn’t think.

( _How did you not know who I was? You're a cop..._ )

“What?” I cut Pascal off. I didn't hear her. My heart is pounding and I can feel him there, but when I reach up to touch my shoulder there's no one there.

( _because he's dead you saw him dead because he died_ )

“Sorry, can you repeat that?”

She looks at me strangely.

“Are you alright, Debra?” LaGuerta asks.

Stop fucking calling me that. “I just...” I swallow. “Yeah, I'm fine. I'm sorry. What were you asking me?”

There's a pause before Pascal replies, “There were just some questions about how you came by some of your leads in this case.”

My skin is crawling. I want to look behind me to make sure he isn't there. How did he know about the lozenge wrapper? Did I tell him? I can't fucking remember. “Like what?” I say when her words finally filter through.

“How did you come to find Tony Tucci?”

“Tucci?” I repeat stupidly. And then for some reason the grip of the memory passes, releases me into an entirely different knot of anxiety. “You mean how did I know to go to that hospital?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Honestly, I don't know.” I shrug slightly. “I was going through surveillance footage when I got a note from dispatch telling me to go there. It was just Tucci's name and the name of the hospital.”

“The message was addressed to you specifically?”

“Yes.” And now I know she's drawn the same conclusion I did but didn't share two months ago.

“And you don't know who sent it?”

“No.”

She leans forward slightly— she's about to drive in the nail. “But do you think you know who sent it?”

Another wash of fear. I don't know what to say. Some small, idiotic part of me wishes I had held out to hide behind legal representation. “I thought it might have been one of the girls I used to work with undercover in Vice,” I hedge.

She waits, but I don't take the bait. I know what she's doing.

But it's LaGuerta who speaks, “Is there a but there?”

And despite myself, the rest of it comes out. “But, if I'm honest, I always thought it might have been him. The Ice Truck Killer, I mean.”

“Why didn't you ever come forward with that?” Pascal asks.

I glance at LaGuerta, and it's with a pang of diluted satisfaction that I see her squirm. She knows fucking exactly why I didn't bring anything up officially. “It wouldn't have done any good if I had,” I say. “There wasn't a recording and the number was a pay phone a block from the hospital.”

“But by not disclosing, you removed any possibility of pulling prints from that pay phone,” Pascal says.

At this I do look directly at LaGuerta. “Me voicing my suspicions wouldn't have been enough to get anyone out to that pay phone. Besides which,” I look back at Pascal, “a few days later we got the print off that lozenge wrapper. It wouldn't have made any difference.”

“Why do you think he would have called you there?”

I grin brittly at her change in direction. “At the time I didn't know. Now I wonder if he might have been stalking me.” The smile goes away. “He was just jerking me around.”

That seems to silence her. And for the first time I can see something vaguely sympathetic behind the professional veneer. Finally, “How did you find the ice truck?”

I exhale. It seems like forever ago and I can barely remember. “I never believed he ditched the truck, so I put a call out with patrol to look out for it,” I say. “A friend of mine from the Academy called me in the morning saying he found it— Juan Pierre. It's all in the report.” A sudden thought. “Did you talk to him?”

She shakes her head. “We haven't talked to anyone outside this immediate department.”

So she's probably talked to Doakes and the rest of the cops in the pen, but no one else. Jesus christ, if the fact that I was under investigation had leaked out to the rest of the PD...

 _If_ it hasn’t…

“I know these questions seem unnecessary, but you can see why they're raising red flags,” she says. “It seems like a lot of the movement in this case was facilitated by you.”

I say nothing. I don't know what to say to that.

“His third victim, Cassandra Mendoza, she was even found in the pool of a hotel you were working out of with Vice.”

I don't know when my molars clamped together.

“You were also instrumental in arresting Neil Perry.”

Finally I can't take it. “I don't know what to tell you. I'm a good—” ( _How did you not know who I was?_ ) “I was doing my job,” I rephrase, trying to push him away. “ITK was my case. I wanted nothing more than to be the one to take him down.”

More silence, but this time it feels slightly less aggressive. Still, my heart is pounding and so is my head.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Pascal says eventually. “As far as me and the department is concerned, we don't believe you had any involvement with Brian Moser's crimes.” ( _you were just his victim, his brainless fuck toy_ ) “But I needed to talk to you about these things personally. You understand?”

“I understand.”

( _I would think a real cop would at least have a sense that she—_ )

“Now, in terms of moving forward, I have to ask, Officer, if you want to continue on with us in Homicide?”

The answer is immediate, the most sure I've been of anything in days. “Yes, I do,” I say. “I would come back to work today.”

A small, thin smile. “Well, I'm sorry that I can't make that happen today.”

I am too. “What do I need to do to come back to work?”

“Take some time,” she says. “You will have to see psych services, but if you don't mind the personal advice, you may want to think about talking to someone about what happened to you— here or somewhere else.”

_Fuck..._

“In the meantime, you'll be placed on disability pending your reinstatement at two thirds pay.” That word seems to ping in my head. _Disability._ “I can call up to HR and make sure there's someone available for you if you want to go upstairs now,” she continues. “Unless you want to contact your rep?”

“No.” I clear my throat. “That's not necessary. I'd appreciate you calling them.” I'm being put on disability. What would Dad think of me if he saw me sitting here?

“Then I will do that in a minute.” I can see the pity in her gaze now that the interrogation is over. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

I see Rudy's corpse, the way he was hanging there, the fact that he was able to get into his place to do that to himself to begin with despite the statewide manhunt and the department's own assurances. When I walked in here I'd had every intention of asking about the status of the internal review, but now I just don't have it in me anymore. I don't want to know. I want this to be over. Does it even fucking matter?

“No,” I say. And I want to ask if he is still here, across the street.

But I'm not going to ask that either.

She nods, and we all stand up together. Pascal walks around her desk.

“Is that it then?” I feel deflated and defeated.

“Yes.” She gives me a small, fake smile. “Thank you for coming in.”

“Yeah.” I don't know what else to say to that. “I guess I'm heading upstairs then.” To start collecting my disability.

“I'll be sure to let them know you're coming. I'll see you later, Officer. And, Maria, if you could stick around for a minute?”

LaGuerta looks at her. “Sure,” she says.

And a second later I finally get the hell out of the office and into some air. The moment I do, my gaze lands on Batista's empty desk, springing up a whole host of shitty, half-formed feelings. ( _did they talk to him about their suspicions?_ ) Then it goes right, lands on Doakes'. He's not there either. I don't know if that's relieving or not. I don't know if I'm still angry with him or not. I don't want to know what Pascal might've asked him.

And when I look left, Dexter is hovering there behind the counter by his office. His brows lift slightly when we make eye contact.

I walk over there.

“You didn't tell me you were coming in today,” he says as I approach, then nods at the office. “What was that about?”

“I'm being put on disability,” I say without preemption. I don't want to talk about the rest of it.

“Oh,” he says.

“Yeah.” It comes out more an exhale than a word.

He's studying me. “How are you? I didn't hear from you yesterday.”

“I don't know.” I shrug. “I'm alright, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I repeat. I'm sure he knows that's not the truth, but this isn't the place to talk about it. Ramos and Pullman are both sitting at their desks two yards away, Masuka's just on the other side of my brother's office, and any minute Doakes could walk back into the station. Or Matthews.

Even if it is way too fucking late for damage control— there's no damage left to control. I was under suspicion of being the Ice Truck Killer's accomplice because that's the only alternative explanation for what happened to me, besides the now obvious fact that I'm a gullible fucking moron.

I'm sure half the pen will know about the disability by tomorrow.

I'm so fucking ashamed of myself.

“Listen, Dex, I've gotta go upstairs, sign some papers,” I say. “I'll see you later, okay?”

“Hey, wait.” He comes around the counter as I start to walk away. And as much as I need to get out of here, I stop and look at him. “Do you want to have dinner tonight? At home or...” He trails off, leaves me to fill in the blank.

But I don't know. “I don't know,” I say. “I think I still fucking... I just need some space.” Even as I say it I know that isn't what I want at all. I don't know why I'm saying no. I shouldn’t be saying no. “I'll call you tonight, alright?”

Another pause. “You're sure you're alright?”

“Yeah.” I shrug a little helplessly at him. “I'll call you later.”

“I'll be here.”

Shooting him a smile, I turn, head straight for the hall and the stairwell, practically dash past the elevator out of a sudden fear that it might open and somebody I don't want to see will step out. The second the door's safely shut behind me, I take a long, deep breath.

Why the fuck did I brush off Dexter's offer? Why would I want to have another night like last night, like the last three nights? To punish myself?

Of course, I know the answer to that.

I let the breath out, look toward the stairs going up in the direction of HR and my shiny new assessment: too mentally fucked to do my job.

( _they thought I was involved they thought I was involved they thought_ )

Three days ago, shortly after I left Batista's apartment, I filled the script I got at the ER for Xanax.

Yesterday I dipped into the three-quarters full bottle of Ambien I still had lying around my drug cabinet— leftovers from last year, when I couldn't seem to get any fucking sleep.

Yesterday was the first time since this whole shitty fucking week started that I didn't feel anything, in that brief span of time I was still awake. Everything just... unraveled, melted away. For a few minutes I forgot about him.

I wonder if there's any chance in fuck of having that again tonight, if there's a way I could just sleep. I don't think I'll be able to without taking something again.

Clanging from below. Footsteps.

I'm suddenly pulled back to reality.

Anyone could be coming up here, and I don't know if I could face them, could explain where I'm going or what I'm doing here. Can't face anymore fucking questions.

So I step toward the stairs.

 


	86. Broken

_ _

_Broken  
_ _Setting: Post-Season_

* * *

I knock back the rest of the beer, hold it there in the air for a second while the drops dribble out onto my tongue. It's not even satisfying, but I do it anyway, finally set it down on my coffee table after a beat.

My gaze flicks back to the TV as something penetrates the fog.

_HeadOn! Apply directly to the forehead! HeadOn! Apply directly to the forehead! HeadOn!_

“Fuck,” I mutter, digging for the remote in the blanket. I find it halfway inside the couch, rip it out, mute the TV, toss it back beside me.

And in the silence the sound of the neighbor's party comes back full force. It's irritating. It's a little more than irritating.

I reach for another beer and the bottle opener, crack it open, let the cap fall on the floor, drink. As I swallow I set it back on the table and rewrap my blanket because it's freezing in here even though I turned on the heat. There's a cracking sound on the floor— the remote fell.

I glance down in its direction but don't grab for it, just huddle a little further into my blanket. When I look back at the TV it's back at Time Square. For some reason half the people in the immediate crowd are wearing red hats.

I just stare at the sea of heads, listen to the bass and the melody and the voices that are filtering down from the ceiling and the walls.

It's New Year's Eve, about six minutes away from 2007.

And what a fucking landmark year it's been.

I reach for the beer again.

In three months I went from Vice to Homicide to Disability. This time last year I was making my way through a shrimp cocktail while sucking down lemon drops at a department party over in Mid-Beach, and as much as I occasionally liked those guys, as I sat there I was telling myself that in a year I wouldn't be one of them anymore. I remember so clearly making that resolution to myself as we all toasted in the new year.

If only I'd known.

I snort humorlessly, have another sip. Sitting here feeling sorry for myself is about the last thing I want to do, is about the last thing I can stand, but I'm already running out of distractions, and the Xanax wore off something like an hour ago.

So far I've resisted the urge to take another, switched to beer instead, but I think I've only succeeded in making myself a little dizzy. I still want something harder, but not quite enough for a repeat of last night— groaning, curled around the toilet and wishing I was dead.

The sound from the neighbors is starting to grate. I reach for the remote but pause halfway there, see my new cell phone sitting on the coffee table between two empty bottles. I wonder what my brother is doing. Knowing him he's awake, but I don't know if he's alone.

I glance at the TV. Both the anchors are wearing big, red hats. A countdown on the screen says the new year is less than three minutes away.

Fuck it.

I grab it, punch in Dexter's number. It rings twice. Five times. Dumps to voicemail.

For a second I formulate some sort of message, but when it beeps I hang up. I don't know what I would've wanted to say to him if he had answered. Happy New Year?

I set the phone back on the table, exchange it for the beer. The clock on the screen is steadily ticking down. T minus two minutes, go.

I take a sip.

I feel like I'm endlessly spiraling down a drain.

I just can't stop seeing his face.

My whole body seems to twitch in the direction of the little orange bottle sitting on the counter, and at once I'm stumbling to my feet. For a second I stand here, not really knowing what just happened or when I did that or why. There's a haze all over everything, something slippery and impossible to grasp, like a fish. How much beer did I have?

Was it enough?

I close my eyes and dig my fingers into my temples, pull them back slowly, take a breath. This isn't me. I can feel myself falling apart.

Ten days. Just ten.

Another breath. I force my eyes open, try to ground myself against the knot in my chest. And then I sit, pull the cigarette box toward me and root around for the lighter. Finally I find it, stick the thing in my mouth and light it up.

It's almost a relief.

I don't know.

I puff out a cloud, and finally my gaze lands back on the TV. Everyone's cheering and confetti's falling. With a distant pang I realize that I missed the last few seconds of the year.

Something like defeat washes over me. I want to try my brother again but I still don't know what I'd say if I reached him. Since Christmas I haven't let on how fucked up I am. I can't even acknowledge to myself how it happened, why I filled the script, why I've been letting myself slip a little further every night. I don't think I could say the words to him.

I watch the last bits of confetti spin towards the concrete at Times Square and take another drag. There's a disconnection. Something.

But I'm afraid to turn the TV off. Mortally fucking terrified.

The room is spinning again. Or did it ever stop?

Fuck.

My hand is shaking as I reach forward to grind the butt out in an ash tray that's already spilling over. Half the stick is still good but it doesn't even matter.

Something moves out of the corner of my eye, and I jump, but it's just a guy walking around the front of the building.

I make a sound that might be a laugh or a sob or something in between, push my fingernails into my face again.

The second I do I'm back standing on that stupid marina with all those stupid fucking flowers everywhere. White roses and the runway strip of lights. I can hear the neighbor's party but I can hear him too, talking to me, sliding the ring onto my finger. I still can't marry the images. When I let myself really see him it doesn't make any sense to me. There was nothing evil there. The way he touched me...

Jesus, I'm going to vomit.

I fold in half on the couch, push my head further into my hands.

I can't stop going over it. That fucking file is spread all over my kitchen table that I never use, photographs of victims and crime scenes and evidence; records and maps. Everything I had with me that night I went to see him. I just... want to remember something. Something I might have brushed off. Something I might have seen. Something... just something. Anything.

But I don't.

I'm so fucking retarded.

The Xanax is six feet away.  
The Ambien is on my dresser.

With empty fucking beer bottles all over my apartment.

No wonder I got suspended.

I laugh to myself, but I'm not really laughing. I don't know what I'm doing. My stomach is churning and the memories are pressing in, sucking me under.

Because fucking every time I think about him, I...

The laughing subsides and I kind of choke on it.

I fucking...

I miss him.

I choke again, pull a strangled breath through my palm. Shame rushes up to crush me at the self-confession.

I miss the man that I knew. Because even if he was an evil fucking bastard and he never gave a crusted fuck about me, what I felt was real.

I really did—

My stomach heaves.

I don't let myself complete the thought, but even as I drag myself away I can feel myself falling back into it. Endlessly spiraling.

I clear my throat, force myself to sit up and look around the room, focus on something real. But whatever's flashing on the TV isn't enough and my apartment has transformed in the span of a week into a total shithole and I can't escape from it.

For all I know he really did murder me.

For all I know I’m dead.

I just want to go to sleep.

I stare at the half-finished beer sitting on the coffee table. All at once the thought of drinking anymore of it seems completely unappealing.

I start walking toward my bedroom. Halfway there I realize I don't remember getting up.

I feel like I don't have a choice. I feel like I deserve it. I don't know why I'm even still here.

All those goddamn empty buckets, their names on strips of tape.

I flick on the lights.

There are clothes piled on a chair, spilling out of the baskets. I need to do laundry, but not tonight. Tomorrow?

I'm at the dresser. Two empty wine glasses and that stupid cactus Dexter gave me, the old softball trophies, candles, nail polish, make up. Gun, unholstered. Bottle of Ambien, capped.

I pick the thing up. In a second the top's off and there's a pill sitting in my palm. I swallow it.

And I hate myself for it.

I hate myself for a lot of things anyway.

But just the knowledge that it's there and that I took it seems to push some of it away.

I go back to the living room, search for the remote for a minute before remembering it fell on the floor, finally find it and turn the TV off, throw my blanket back on the couch. Then I start grabbing beer bottles, drain the one I was working on in the sink and toss that and the rest in the recycle bin. Rearrange cushions. Throw away trash. Double-check the lock on the patio door for the thirtieth time today. Grab a water bottle from the fridge and drink half of it in one swallow.

I'm already starting to feel hazy as I turn off the lights and go into the bathroom, or maybe it's the same as it was and I'm just now starting to notice. I don't know.

I take out my contacts, pull a yard of floss out of the little plastic box, brush my teeth. There's a speck on the mirror and I find myself trying to rub it off, scratch it off with a fingernail. It doesn't go away. Maybe it's paint. I don't know how long I was doing that.

Everything's spinning.

I float out of the bathroom. Forget to turn the light off. Go back to do that. Find the light for the bedroom and kill that too.

I'm so tired.

I forgot to do something.

I drop onto my bed, lie here. Already I'm falling asleep. My head weighs a thousand pounds.

It's hard to get myself under the blankets. My thoughts are drifting away. I keep forgetting what I'm doing. My stomach is flipping over and over but I know I'm too tired to puke. I think. I hope.

Sleep.

I settle on my belly, let out a breath, feel myself sink into the ocean. The blankets are heavy. The pillow smells like...

What...

I'm going...

A car alarm goes off, right fucking two inches from the window.

I jolt up even as I'm melting back down. I twist and look behind me but I don't see any lights through the curtains, and after a couple hundred seconds it occurs to me that I don't hear anything anymore. I don't know if it really happened.

I start to sink into the bed again. My gaze floats left as my eyes close but then it stops, catches on something in the corner.

I stare at it.

Fear starts creeping up my throat but it's a second before I understand why.

There's something there.

Something in the corner.

Someone.

I can't seem to move. I left my gun somewhere far away— in my car?

The shape moves from the dark, steps closer. And in the light he's smiling at me, patronizingly.

I'm electrified but I can't move. Everything's slowing down to half time as a single thought connects.

( _oh jesus_ )

“Rudy,” I think I say.

He's standing over me. Looking down at me. He's not wearing a shirt.

I can't seem to move. I can feel my breath die in my lungs.

( _oh jesus_ )

_Why can't I—_

( _oh christ oh god oh jesus christ_ )

“You really never figured it out?” he asks me.

My heart is hammering. He's dead. I saw it. I saw him hanging there. He cut his throat.

( _you're dead you're dead you're_ )

The sound of tape. A lightning bolt of terror. A thousand fragmented images.

He's holding duct tape, pulling out a strip. To put over my mouth.

Finally I move, jump away. I'm screaming no.

But he catches me, pulls me back. Climbs on top of me and crushes me down into the bed.

“You fucking bastard!” I scream at him, thrashing like something dying, but he's sitting on my chest, has my arms pinned flat. He's trying to tape my mouth shut. He's going to murder me. I'm going to die.

There are sounds coming out of my mouth but I don't understand any of them.

( _oh god oh jesus oh god oh god oh fuck_ )

( _you're dead oh christ oh jesus you're dead_ )

He grabs me tight just under my jaw, forces me still as he sticks the tape over my mouth. I keep screaming through it, bucking and twisting. My leg comes up, hits his side. His hand is still around my throat, squeezing it down, squeezing away my breath.

( _I can't breathe_ )

Panic is taking over. My heart is crashing against my ribs.

( _this is it this is it this is it this is it this is it_ )

My legs twist around him. My fist shoots up like a piston, fires into his face. Suddenly the pressure is gone. He falls off me.

“Fuck!”

I rip the tape off my mouth, roll off the bed, hit the floor coughing.

( _ **run run run run run**_ _)_

I scramble forward, barely getting upright as I barrel toward the living room. The distance between here and the front door seems like thousands of miles. He's right behind me.

( _oh god oh jesus oh jesus oh christ gun I need my gun where is my gun where_ )

He grabs my arm as I reach the kitchen. We stumble into the bar stools but neither of us fall. They crash to the floor.

( _where is the gun where is the gun where is the gun where is the gun_ )

I swing wildly at him but my punch doesn't seem to connect, just slides off his face. We're struggling. He's got me pressed against the counter. I can't remember where my gun is, where the fuck I left it. Terror is eating me alive. My thoughts are shutting down.

( _bedroom?_ )

( _in the bedroom_ )

His hands are around my throat again.

( _too far too far too far_ )

I scream, clawing at him desperately. My knee swings into his stomach. I kick lower, aim straight for his balls.

His grip slips.

( _ **run run run run run run run**_ )

Can't get to the door.

I run for the patio. My heart is going to explode. He's boxing me in. I won't be able to get the door unlocked and open. He's going to corner me and he's going to kill me.

( _ **knife**_ )

The terror seems to crystallize, sharpen to a razor point.

I throw myself at him, shoulder low, ram into his stomach. In the space I stumble past him, head for the counter. There's a knife sitting there.

He grabs me just as I reach it, slams me hard against a cabinet. My fingers death lock around the handle of the knife. I force myself around and slash at him.   
The knife glides off his shirt as he steps away.

“ _Fuck!_ ” I'm screaming. “ _I'm going to fucking kill you, you fuck!_ ”

( _I'm not going to die I can't let myself die_ )

( _I'm going to kill you you're going to die again I'm going to kill you I_ )

But the blade keeps sliding off him. I can't draw any blood.

He's reaching for me again, grabs my wrist. I keep slashing at him desperately as I try to yank back, but he's pulling me toward him.

( _you're dead you're dead you killed yourself_ )

And then he snatches the knife from me. Somehow the blade doesn't cut him.

( _no no no no no no no_ )

He hurls me to the floor. Before I can push myself up he's on top of me, forcing me onto my back as he straddles me. I try to hit him but he captures my arms by the wrists and wrenches them above my head, presses them down.  
( _ **no no no no no no no no no**_ )

He grabs the knife with his other hand.

( _oh jesus oh christ oh god oh fuck oh sweet jesus_ )

( _I don’t want to die I don’t want to die_ )

“Nice try,” he says quietly, looking down at me without expression. He's two inches from my face.

“Why?” I ask him again. I'm crying, wagging my head around because it's all I can do. I've given up. I'm going to die. It's over. That was it and I failed. “Oh fuck, oh jesus...”

He holds the knife there over my chest, stares at me. His weight is crushing me down. My head is filling with bright white noise.

( _please god I don’t want to die please god please god_ )

He suddenly dips forward, brings his lips right up against my ear.

“For fun,” he says quietly, almost conspiratorially. His breath puffs hot against my skin.

I hear myself scream as the knife goes in. I thrash under him as he kills me, as the knife goes in deeper, deeper.

( _oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god_ )

( _I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I_ )

Somehow I lurch up, but I'm so heavy I fall back down.

( _don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die_ )

He's gone.

The thought penetrates. I force myself up again, thud my hand against my chest, searching. But there's no blood where he stabbed me. My head's going to fall off.

I smell sweat.

( _where is he where where where_ )

Another thought. I'm not in the kitchen. I'm in bed.

( _how did I get here_ )

( _where is he_ )

( _he's here_ )

I push myself further up and to the edge of the bed, fall off it and into the nightstand. The sound is electrifying, terrifying, but I can't get myself up. I weigh as much as a car, as much as everything. The room is spinning. My eyes are bleeding from the pressure in my head.

“Fuck.”

( _he's here he's here he's here_ )

( _get the gun_ )

Somehow I get up, throw myself against the dresser. My gun is sitting there. I knock something over trying to get to it. My hands are shaking as I lock them around it, pull back the hammer, extend it in front of me.

My gaze gets caught on something in a corner, and immediately I feel bolted to the floor. I don't know what it is but it scares the shit out of me.

“You motherless fuck,” I say. Because he's there.

I take a step forward, straight and solid behind my pistol even as my head throbs and my blood pressure drops off a cliff. There's nothing there.

Nothing in the corner.

“Fuck,” I hiss. My vision is blurry from all the blood. But when I wipe some of it away with the back of my hand it comes back clear.

( _where_ )

I throw on the lights, curse as the brightness sends needles shooting through my eyes. Everything's over-bright as I look around, check the closet, check the bathroom.

( _where is he_ )

( _kitchen_ )

Terror like murder crawls up my throat as I walk out of my bedroom, gun up, turning on lights, every light. Nothing makes sense. Everything looks the same.

( _he's dead_ )

The thought chimes distantly, doesn't really register.

I walk around the island, walk around the living room, check every corner. When I get to the patio the door's locked, but I turn on the lights and open it up anyway, check the corners. See nothing. Close the door. Slowly.

I look toward the kitchen, toward where he killed me. ( _he's dead_ ) I force myself over there, stand over it, squat down. The muzzle of my gun lowers.

I don't know what's going on.

“Fuck,” I whisper, sniffing. I rub my eyes again with the back of my hand. “Fuck.”

( _he's dead_ )

( _he's not here_ )

But I can feel him on top of me, hear his words in my ear.

Ripples of fear.

My head... god, fuck.

There's a snapping sound.

I whirl, am on my feet in a second.

_CRACK!_

_CRACK!_

My hands are quivering as I smell the powder. My ears are ringing.

Finally it connects. What I did.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

When I go forward there's no one there, no body, no shadow. I already forgot what I saw, if I even saw anything.

“Oh christ.” I stare at the bullet holes on the wall, reach forward to rub them with a fingernail. “Fuck. _Fuck!_ ”

My knees turn to jelly. I collapse to the floor, set the gun down. My head is pounding, stomach is swirling. And suddenly I'm puking a disgusting, fizzy stream of frothy liquid, choking on it.

“Oh jesus.”

( _something's broken something's wrong_ )

A trickle through my core, cold and rational.

Someone would've heard that.

( _I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't I_ )

( _need help_ )

( _Dexter_ )

I get up, remember where the phone is halfway to it. I'm shaking as I dial. I don't know what time it is.

( _oh god oh fuck oh fuck_ )

I press the thing against my ear, sniffing. Already I'm looking behind me, toward the door and toward the gun I left on the floor, up to the two holes in the wall.

“Hello?”

Fear erupts inside me. ( _something's broken_ ) “Dex,” I say. I'm staring at the bullet holes.

“Deb?”

( _I'm broken broken something inside me_ )

“Debra?”

I blink. “I need help, Dex.”

There's a shuffling sound, bumping. Something that could be another voice. “Where are you?”

“At my apartment,” I say mechanically. There's a stillness washing over me.

“Are you okay?”

“No.” I sniff, wipe at my eyes again.

All the sounds stop. For half a beat there's just silence on my brother's end of the line. “Did you...”

“I shot the wall,” I answer before he can finish the question. “I'm fine.”

More silence. “Debra, what does that mean?”

“I saw him,” and as I say it it finally sinks in how fucking retarded that is. “I thought I saw him.”

“Rudy.” It's not a question.

“Yeah,” I say.

“I'm leaving now. I'll be there soon, alright?”

“Yeah.” It's a relief to hear that. I find myself sinking to the floor. “Will you stay on the line?”

I hear something that sounds like a door shutting. “Yeah, of course.” A car beep.

( _something's broken something broken something broken_ )

“How far away are you?” I ask.

“I'm coming from Rita's,” is his reply. Another door sound. Dinging. _Slam!_

“Oh.” I don't know what else to say. I wonder when the patrol officers will get here. How long it will take them to find my apartment.

I'm staring down the hall, at the gun and the vomit. Shame is fast filling up all that emptiness where the fear used to be, somewhere in my chest right a half an inch from where he stabbed me.

( _dream it was a dream_ )

( _he was never here_ )

( _because he's dead_ )

“I'll get there as soon as I can.”

“Yeah.”

“Will you be okay until I get there?”

“Yeah.”

And between us crackles the shitty connection— buzzing and feedback.

I don't know how long I listen to it before I manage to speak again, “Thanks.”

I hear his breath hit the receiver. “Of course.”

Nodding slightly, I close my eyes, listen to the static. Wait for some distant siren.

( _I'm what's broken he broke me he broke me_ )

Slowly, I curl inward.

( _I'm broken I'm broken I'm broken_ )

 


	87. Family

_ _

_Family  
_ _Setting: Post-Season_

* * *

( _something smells good_ )

Sleep. Warm. Heavy.

( _what is that?_ )

Doesn't matter.

It's too bright.

I pull the blanket up and over my head, exhale and sink further into the bed. So fucking tired.

( _frying something_ )

I just want to sleep.

But already I can feel myself waking up.

Sounds in the kitchen, smells.

Breakfast. Bacon. Coffee.

God fucking fuck.

I crack open an eye, sort of, just barely. Stare into the comforter over my head. It's all lit up. What time is it?

Fuck it, I'm awake.

I throw the blanket off, sit up on my elbows.

For a second I don't recognize anything and it doesn't make sense. But just as quickly the confusion passes. Dexter's bedroom.

And already the reasons why are there again, climbing up the back of my throat. I can't stay here.

Goddammit.

I get up, scoop my hair behind my ears as I walk toward the half-open door and pull it the rest of the way back. As I step out I see my brother standing in the kitchen. He's got his back to me, is busy spooning what looks like pancake batter onto a griddle. On the stove there's a pan filled with bacon, on the counter a carton of orange juice and two mugs.

I find myself smiling at it all. It's so... familiar. Safe.

I can breathe again.

“Morning,” I say.

“Oh, morning,” Dexter says, glancing back at me before going back to scooping batter onto the griddle. “Do you want coffee?”

“Yeah, that'd be great.”

He nods and sets the spoon in the bowl, grabs the pot from the coffeemaker. “You want some of this new creamer I got?”

I eye him suspiciously as he pours coffee in the mug. “I don't know. What is it?”

“White chocolate raspberry.”

I wrinkle my nose. That sounds fucking disgusting. “Can I just have some sugar?”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

I reach for the mug and take a sip of the coffee black as he grabs one of the silver tins sitting above the stove and pops off the cap, sets it in front of me. I take another sip as he opens a drawer and pulls out a little silver spoon.

“Here.” He hands it to me.

“Thanks.” I take it. “You need any help?”

“No, I've got it.” As he says it he turns around and picks up a pair of tongs off a plate. I start spooning sugar into my coffee, watch him flip the bacon and the pancakes. Sitting here it's like a weight is falling off me, but even so it doesn't change why I'm here to begin with.

It's been four days since I shot those two bullet holes into my hallway wall. Except to grab some clothes, I haven't been back to my place since. I'm afraid to. I'm afraid to try to spend another night by myself, and I'm starting to think I wouldn't be able to if I tried.

I swirl the spoon around the mug.

Dexter and I have barely talked about what happened that night. I didn't tell him about the drugs and the booze, but when he walked in he saw the pills on the counter and the bottles in the trash and the vomit on the floor and the bullets in the wall and he put it together. It wouldn't have taken a genius to figure it out, and my brother is a genius anyway. He just asked if I was okay.

As if I even needed to say anything, as if it wasn't obvious I was spinning out.

I can only thank fuck that no uniforms ever showed up at my door. My neighbors must've thought the shots were fireworks or something, who knows. I'll still have to explain it to my landlord though.

I sip more coffee, immediately regret all the sugar.

Dexter asked about it the next morning, but I didn't know what to tell him. I couldn't explain to myself what happened. It just felt so _real,_ like he really had been there, like he really killed me on my kitchen floor. But no matter how I worded it it just sounded retarded as it left my mouth. Dexter saw Rudy's body hanging there as well as me, was right fucking there with me. Of course he wasn't there.

I don't know what happened to me.

Or maybe I do, and that's the problem.

“Here you go.”

I refocus as a plate is slid in front of me, look up to see Dexter set a fork next to it. He gives me a smile that reminds me of when we were twenty years younger helping Mom out in the kitchen. “I heated up some syrup, melted some butter,” he says, setting two little cups near my plate. “I'll get you a glass for the juice.” He turns and grabs a cup from a cabinet, turns to put it in front of me.

Pain coils inside me. I don't know if it's because he's being so fucking nice or if it's because it's so obvious he doesn't know what to do for me or if it's because I thought of Mom.

“What's all this for, Dex?” I ask, watching as he sets his own plate on the counter on the short end of the L and sits.

“I don't know,” he says. “It's Thursday.”

Fucking Pancake Night.

I smile despite myself, pour some juice in the glass he gave me. “Don't you have to work?”

“Honestly, there hasn't been much for me to do. I asked if it was alright if I took the morning.”

The smile fades. I don't want to ask if he mentioned me as the reason. I don't want to know the answer.

“I thought maybe we should talk,” he says when I don't reply.

The smile's gone completely. I start cutting into the stack, change my mind and grab a piece of bacon instead. “About what?” I ask, taking a bite of it.

He taps his fingers on his mug. “I heard you last night.”

My gaze falls in the other direction, and I silently chew the bacon. I still don't want to talk about this.

“I wasn't sure if I should knock on the door,” he continues. “I wasn't sure if I should ask about it either, but...” He trails off, seems to struggle.

“But what?” I'm staring hard at the empty pan on the stove. The fat's already congealing.

“It's been days, Deb. Don't you want to go home?”

I say nothing. I've got nothing, and suddenly the food sitting in front of me doesn't smell as good as it did a couple seconds ago.

I take a breath.

Last night I was sobbing, curled up in the bed around a pillow. Every time I closed my eyes I felt myself splayed across the table, could feel the tape around my mouth and all that goddamn plastic around my body. I couldn't stop remembering what it was like to lie there, to have to wait in the dark for him to come for me. Standing up and pacing around, TV, splashing water in my face, none of it made a fuck's bit of difference. I couldn't escape from it, couldn't sleep, was too afraid to take another sleeping pill— kept imagining what might happen if I woke up and armed myself again in another panicked stupor.

I don't know when I finally fell asleep.

“Just tell me what I can do,” Dexter says.

I swallow, still staring at the pan. “I can't even tell myself that,” I say quietly.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don't know what else there is to say.”

There's a pause. “You could start with last night.” Another pause. Exhale. “Or New Year's.”

I feel myself droop on the stool. I just feel broken, like some part of me fell out on that boat, like maybe he carved it out of me with one of those fucking knives. And when I close my eyes really it's like he could be on the other side of the door, holding another needle and a roll of duct tape.

“I can't stop seeing his face, Dex,” I admit finally, tell it to the frying pan. I can't look at my brother.

A slight delay before he replies, “You mean when you're asleep?”

“No.” I shake my head. There's little flecks of grease all over the range. “Well, yeah, but... I don't know. I can't...” What? I puff out a breath. “I just can't seem to walk out of that fucking garage.”

“Is that why you're taking those anti-anxiety pills?”

I swallow, look down at the counter. “Yeah.”

“Does it help?”

I shrug. “Fuck, I don't know.” Pinch my jaw. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Is that also why you haven't gone home?”

I nod, try to push away all the shame and all the anger and all the pain swirling around.

“What do you want me to do?”

I shrug again. I'm afraid to voice it, what I've been thinking every night since he pulled me off that table. I'm so fucking ashamed of myself.

“Deb, will you look at me?”

It takes a second. I set my jaw, finally meet his eyes again. I don't know how to read what I find there.

“Were you really shooting at the wall that night?”

I feel my mouth open, almost ask him 'What?' But then I realize what he's asking and something sick washes through me. “No, I—” I gesture helplessly, pull my hair back, leave my fingers pressed against my forehead. “I was just... I saw him. I thought I saw him. Fuck, I don't fucking know.” I look down again. “I don't want to die, Dex.” Something seems to tear open just saying the words. I remember how often I thought them.

“Why don't you want to go home?”

I swallow as the sick and the pain rise up my chest, smile with grief. “I'm afraid,” I admit finally.

“Of what?”

Another shrug. “To be alone. I'm afraid of what could happen.”

There's a long pause. I can feel him looking at me, but I can't bring myself to see exactly how. Pain bubbles just under my tongue, waiting for me to choke on it or maybe to vomit it out all over my brother's pristine kitchen counter.

“Tell me how I can help you,” he says again.

Finally I look at him again, drop my hand. “Would you mind if I just... stayed here? For awhile?”

“Yeah.” He reaches forward, squeezes the hand I just put down. “Of course. You can stay here as long as you want.”

Another wash of pain. “Really?”

“Of course. Deb, you're my family. You can stay here as long as you need to.”

Suddenly my eyes burn, and I smile again, look away.

“We might have to talk about sharing the bed though.”

At that I bark a laugh, and I swipe at my eyes as I look at him. “Should have invested in a fucking pull-out, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling with me. It makes me feel safe.

And for a moment neither of us say anything. I still feel lost in the gravity of what I just asked him. I don't know what it means that I admitted it to him, how fucked up I must sound.

“Maybe we should eat this,” I say finally, gesturing to our plates. I'm sure it's cold by now and I feel kind of shitty about that too. “Before it gets any colder.”

“No argument here,” he says and picks up his fork.

Smiling slightly, I reach for another piece of bacon, pause as I lift it. “Thanks,” I say.

He nods and smiles at me. He's already stuffed a big fat fucking piece of pancake in his mouth.

And somehow everything seems just slightly more manageable.

Just sort of.

Maybe.

I eat the rest of the bacon.

 


	88. Close the Door

_ _

_Close the Door  
_ _Setting: Post-Season_

* * *

I push up to my toes as I brush the last of the dust off my blinds. The duster's coming back dirtier than I thought, but then again I can't remember the last time I deep cleaned the place, if I've ever bothered to clean the blinds. When was the last time I even cleaned the patio doors? Two months ago? Four? I don't know.

In the bedroom I can hear Dexter running the vacuum. There's something intensely comforting about the sound, or maybe it's just the knowledge that he's right here with me. I couldn't do this without him. Any of it.

Satisfied with the blinds, I let the duster fall to the carpet and pull them all to the side, lean down to grab a bottle of Windex and a handful of paper towels. When I stand up I just stand here for a second, looking out the doors at my newly barren patio— neatly swept up and dusted by my brother.

I spray the doors, all over. My apartment smells like chemicals and vacuum fumes. The apartment.

It's still sinking in. What I'm doing.

I start wiping the toweling around. I'm two or three minutes in when there's a knock on the door. The vacuum sound in the background stops as I turn around and glance in the direction of the sound. Then I set the cleaning crap down, head for the door and open it.

“Hi, I'm Ian. We talked on the phone,” the guy on the other end says, holding out his hand. I reach out to shake it. “This is Gary.”

“Debra,” I say, shaking Gary's hand. “You're here for the couch?”

“Yeah.” He looks past me, at the only piece of furniture still left in the apartment. “That it?”

“That's it.” I step out of the way, let them in.

They both start coming in but pause three steps in, look at something behind me.

“Hi,” Ian says.

I glance back to see my brother standing in the hall. The vacuum's leaning against a wall. “Hi,” he says. “You need any help?”

“No, I think we got it, thanks,” he says. His friend's already at the couch, inspecting it. For some reason it's almost offensive.

The two of us stand here watching them as they pull off the cushions, slightly pull out the bed. Ian finally walks back over to me after they set the pull-out back in. “Alright, looks good,” he says. “Two hundred you said?”

“Yeah.” I consciously avoid the impulse to cross my arms.

“Awesome. Mind if I use your counter?”

“Go ahead.” There's something irritating about his niceness. Maybe it's just this whole fucking situation.

Nodding, he walks over to the counter I recently scrubbed off with all purpose cleaner and pulls a check out of his wallet. “Who am I making it out to?”

“Debra Morgan,” I say.

There's a very slight pause, something barely determinable but definitely there. I think. I can't help the stab of paranoia.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, scribbling. When he's done he stands up straight, holds it out. His gaze seems to linger on my face just a little longer than before as I take it from him, but I try to ignore it. I don't know if he really does recognize me or if I'm just seeing something that isn't there.

“Thanks,” I say.

“No, thank you.” He looks in Dexter's direction for a millisecond before he turns around, walks to his newly acquired property. “Alright, I'll go backwards,” he says to Gary. “Tell me when you're ready.”

Something almost resentful clenches around my guts as I watch them pick up and slowly remove my couch. It drains away as they step over the threshold, walk it out of my place and around the corner and gone forever.

It's just a couch.

Sighing, I fold the check and stick it in my back pocket, close the door behind them. When I turn around, Dexter and the vacuum have disappeared back into my bedroom, and I hear it whir back to life within a beat of noticing their absence.

My gaze drifts left, lands on the hall wall, at the two slightly off-color patches there. Dexter spackled up the bullet holes a week ago.

It's been over two weeks since I did that, a week since I admitted to my brother that I didn't think I could ever come back here, that I had to break the lease.

Twenty-six since... fucking everything went to hell. Almost a month.

And now my apartment is empty except for a trash can, two boxes of cleaning supplies, a vacuum, and a couple water bottles. All my shit has been relocated to Dexter's apartment, the rest either sold, thrown away, or moved to a storage unit. I don't know how we managed to do it all so quickly.

Swallowing, I look away, go back to the doors to finish cleaning them. It doesn't take that long. Halfway through it Dexter comes in, starts vacuuming the living room.

When I'm done I throw the paper toweling away, take the Windex and the remaining roll over to the box sitting on the kitchen counter and unceremoniously dump them in. When I look left I see the two marks in the wall again. The sight of them seems to drop a weight inside me. Suddenly I just want to be done with it. I can't be here anymore.

I go pull the blinds back into their usual position, straighten the curtains. Behind me, Dexter kills the vacuum.

“Think that's it,” he says when I turn around. I watch as he pulls the plug and goes to carefully wrap it around the back of the vacuum.

“Thanks for doing that,” I say again. “And for everything.”

He stands up, finally looks at me. The easiness in his expression is reassuring. Nothing is ever a big deal. Nothing is ever too much to ask.

“It's no problem. I'll just run this out to the car. You want to grab one of the boxes?”

“Yeah.”

He nods and grabs the trash can, takes that and the vacuum out to the door.

“I'll be out in a minute,” I say as he opens it.

“Alright.” Another nod, and then he steps out, closes the door quietly behind him.

And suddenly I'm alone.

I suck in a breath, let it out slowly, look around.

I've been in this apartment three years, got it a couple months before I transferred to Vice. It feels like a couple hundred fucking years ago.

It's strange to see it empty.

I find myself walking around again to do one last check. My brother cleaned everything thoroughly. Besides the spackled wall, there's basically no evidence that I ever lived here, nothing left.

It's so fucking weird.

I close my eyes.

I don't know if this is the right decision, but I'm starting to feel like I don't know anything anymore anyway. There's an emptiness inside, big-ass, jagged fucking cracks, and I don't know how to put the pieces back together again— if I even can.

Twenty-six fucking days. I wonder how many of them I've managed to sleep.

“Hey.”

I open my eyes, turn around to see Dexter standing the doorway. He's holding a box.

“Hey,” I say.

“Ready to go?”

I clear my throat. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, let's go.”

He nods and walks out with the box.

And after I beat I follow him out, leave the door half open behind me.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus christ, Deb. You and I, we did it. We actually got through this fucking season.  
> Okay, anyway, there's going to be a meta(ish) thing of my thoughts on s1 Deb that's already basically done and should go up in a few days. I'm not guaranteeing its quality, but I'm just saying it'll exist.  
> I'd also like to take a second to say that if you liked the concept of this fic and you also happen to like the X Files, please check out BeshterAngelus on FF.net (1breath on LJ) for the Scully version of s1-7. That's the series that inspired me to do what I did and it's awesome. Go read it.  
> Finally, Deb and I are going to continue our beautiful journey into s2 shortly, so I hope you'll continue reading as she takes on Lundy, Gabriel, Lila, the BHB, and more PTSD. Yay!


	89. Season 1 Meta/Thoughts

I'm not really going to guarantee that this is going to be interesting or informative or even particularly coherent. I don't know that I've ever been accused of writing that kind of meta (if this even is meta). But as much as I could just end s1 where I ended it and move on to s2, I still don't feel _done_ with it, and I think that's because despite Debra being effectively a side character in season 1, it's a really, really important season for her. It might even be one of the most important, despite her having comparatively so little screen time. So I just wanted to explore that, and talk about the season in general— for once try talking about Deb instead of just from her perspective.

So without further ado...

_Wait, what the fuck? Who the fuck is this? (and holy jpeg compression, Batman)_

I feel like there's a reason that when I finished s1 the first time and even the second and the third time around (really, up until I started this project), in my mind Deb was a side character being built very early into victimhood. This was “the season where Deb dated the ITK.” When I heard the writer's commentary on s1 (side note, I'm still confused as to why s1 is the only season that has commentary or even any significant special features so why would I spend the money... but anyway) I was honestly kind of amazed that they thought that no one saw Rudy as ITK coming. To me it was obvious from the second they sat their buns on the hood of his car that a) he was ITK and b) he was going to end up trying to kill her. Violently. And, you know, then he did.

And this wasn't just because the timing and his general weirdness made it obvious. It was also because Deb had already been framed as someone who makes poor decisions romantically (see: Sean the Mechanic and Sean Who Smelled Like Cheese and her various other allusions, and this is a trend she continues up to the bitter end), and because she leads with her heart even if that sometimes pulls her up shit creek, and most significantly because she's the yang to Dexter's yin. _Obviously_ Dexter was going to end up rescuing her. Freaking _obviously._ Even before Moser enters stage left, it was obvious that Deb was going to get into trouble because she's played up as so vulnerable and so headstrong and so completely _not Dexter_ , and it was obvious Dexter was going to save her because to do so is to figuratively choose to hold onto his humanity, and because Dexter is so completely _not Debra_. The reveal at the end of 1.8 was almost redundant.

And ultimately that's the root of Deb's tragic subtext and more or less sets up the series-wide theme that all of Dexter's shit inevitably rolls downhill onto her head— because they're each other's foils. Both of them grew up in the same household under similar (if wildly opposing) levels of abuse and both of them exit into the world choosing to pursue paths into hyperviolence. Dexter chooses to refine life as a serial killer, directing virtually all his violence externally but essentially none internally— because when he bothers to look inward it's under an exculpatory lens. Deb becomes a cop (a career that comes with violence inherently) wanting to work Homicide like her dad, constantly trying to fill some internal void and never quite succeeding. But unlike Dexter, she internalizes most of her violence and directs it inward (and I think maybe you can hear that falling out of her mouth somewhere between the lines and the f-bombs). There's some dramatic irony in the fact that between the two of them, Deb comes off as the miserable one.

And maybe that's why I rapidly came to view Deb as the intrepid (if highly tragic) hero of _Dexter._ s8 shit on her so much that it honestly makes me think that the writers or the fandom or the producers or somebody must have hated her, and I will never ever understand why or forgive that they kowtowed her to Banana McBitch (but that's a topic for another day). All this to say, even if lots of people don't seem to like Deb, _**I love Deb with the**_ _**burning fire of a thousand vibrant suns**_. Mid-series I sit there the whole time on the rerun with a stupid grin on my face because she's there and she's at her prime and everything is beautiful and s1 is a distant memory (and s8 an ignorable future).

Only, really, it isn't. The specter of s1 haunts her more than it does any other character on the show.

If I'm honest, I think that Deb was the only character who stumbled when the gates opened in the pilot, and even though I've spent quite a lot of this past year thinking about it, I'm still not sure whether the reason is because maybe at the time they shot the episode she hadn't been fully realized as a character yet (because JC just feels different in 1.1 and 1.2, just in terms of the way she spoke and the way she held herself) or if there was an intentionality to her awkwardness.

But the bottom line is she just... wasn't her. She's not the person I recognize as Debra “Go Fuck Off and Die in a Shithole Because You're a Shitcan” Morgan. She's strikingly unconfident. She seems to doubt her intelligence. She's a pariah. She comes off almost desperate, both in her work and in her relationships. She's a tryhard constantly slamming against the pencil-skirted brick wall that is LaGuerta (oh, the inescapable irony), arguing with her and sneaking behind her back and glaring at her petulantly whenever she's looking in the other direction (and even if she isn't). And it's not necessarily that this is OOC, because it isn't. This is who she is consistently in s1 and even a little into s2. It's just that Deb grows up so much by mid-series that when you go back there's this really strong sense that something changed drastically with her character. Put s1 Deb in the church at the end of s6 and she never survives it.

s1 Deb I think is really one of the best peeks we get into who she probably was growing up— kind of rough around the edges, kind of pissed off all the time, undervalued and fighting that half the time and accepting it the rest, constantly craving love and approval (from anyone who could give it). And we still see that person even up through later seasons, still see the low self-esteem and the niggling fear that her brother (her only family) doesn't love her, still see her constantly on the fringes (save for s4/5, really), still see her generally pissed off about everything, but she gains a lot of confidence and a lot of strength and she loses most of the need for that approval. Somewhere in the process of having to put herself back together again and again and again all those edges harden and she manages to learn to leash or at least to live with all the horrible things that have happened to her (both during the show and whatever she suffered growing up). s1 Deb didn't have that capacity.

But that's the thing about her. Most of the characters on the show remain relatively stagnant from s1 to their respective ends. Sure, they changed as the seasons progressed, but in general I think that who Dexter, Rita, Doakes, Batista, LaGuerta, Matthews, and Masuka were in the pilot was basically who they were down the road (especially Doakes). To some degree you could shift who each of them was in s1 or s2 into one of the last seasons and erase everything they experienced in between and it wouldn't matter. But that isn't true of Deb. She changes fairly drastically almost every single season, but the leap is especially large between s1 and s2, and that's because she started out the way she did and then had the absolute, ever-living fuck stomped out of her.

_I don't know why I put this here._

And unfortunately most of the changes and a lot of what she feels falls into the background of the show's narrative, especially in s1 (but that's true even later). In the first season almost all of the important stuff that happens to her happens off-camera or through somebody else's perspective (generally Dexter; Moser in 1.12; really, only one tiny piece of one of the scenes during her kidnapping were even from her POV). Her appearances in scenes tend to just truncate randomly when people stop paying attention to her— which practically (and likely unintentionally) underlines her fear that she's not very important to anyone (because as a viewer I found myself going “Wait, where did she go?” and it's like the writers were replying “Eh, who cares?”). Almost every scene in 1.2 that she's in she just sort of evaporates from (seriously, go watch 1.2 or 1.3 or 1.4 and watch her disappear). At the end of 1.2 she's sitting there “kinda running the gambit here emotion-wise” between landing the transfer to Homicide and finding out the guy she'd been seeing was a cheating shitbag in the span of a hot minute, and then Dexter gets up to go take a piss and stalk a guy and that's the last you see of her— never hear about Sean again, barely hear about her feelings about getting that transfer again, don't even get the scene resolved from her end of it. And that happens a lot in s1 episodes.

The show spends a lot of time helping the viewer get into Dexter's head, and it's for obvious reasons— he's the main character and the narrator and he's a serial killer, and if he's going to be sympathetic we need to be able to build a bridge from us to him; we need to understand him. With Deb we're denied virtually all of that access, maybe on the logic that she's not that hard to read and that she's the foil anyway. On the surface it's not important to the narrative that you understand her in s1, just that maybe you like her, so maybe you care when she's victimized. But the consequence is that it's a lot harder to get to know her.

_Except, really, I could give a shit about Dexter 90% of the time..._

We don't really hear much of her feelings or get much information about her prior romantic entanglements except that they were clearly negative, but those are really important reasons behind why she latched onto Rudy. We have no idea how she feels about the fact that Dexter had a head thrown at him by a serial killer. We don't see how she really celebrates her transfer to Homicide beyond dinner with Dexter (so does that mean she's really as lonely as she looks here or is it just that we never see her friends?). We don't see her rescuing Tucci— we just see her afterward. We barely get to see her enjoy her arrest of Neil Perry before Dexter poops all over her parade. Most of the development in her relationships with Doakes and Batista happens off-camera and is implied. We don't see all the little things between her and who she knew as Rudy Cooper that led to what happened in 1.11. We're just left to interpret, as Moser says, that she's just kind of desperate and lonely and maybe even a little pathetic and that for some reason despite her vibrant personality she's an outcast.

All those things that are happening to her but which are removed from the viewer's sight makes it very easy to just flat out not notice them at all, or not think about them, or to not understand them. The show never really spends much time on the significance of the fact that Harry spent so much time and energy on Dexter when they were growing up— it's not clear how damaging that was unless you think about it yourself, because she never really gets to talk about it outside of a few acidic asides. But the fact that she lost her mother so young, that she was effectively abandoned by her father whose death then left her with Dexter as her only family (sidenote, it really surprises me the show never once pursued the obvious implication here that Dexter must have at least briefly served as her legal guardian (outside of one of the weird motion comics)) is probably a big part of the reason she developed her vocabulary the way she did, why she puts herself in bad relationships, why she always seems to be the outcast, why she has such low self-esteem. It's a huge indication of how little she's been valued by other people throughout her life that she fell for Rudy just because he was being nice to her (and from her “too many times” in 3.4 I honestly doubt he was the first).

And while it makes sense why so much of her context gets stripped out (because she isn't the main character), that doesn't change that it's the reason that her Big Fucking Mistake leaves her coming out looking like a gullible retard who you may or may not dislike anyway because you think she's obnoxious between her language and the way she does things.

But that's not fair, and it leaves you half-blaming her for what happened to her. It denies her her intelligence and her strength and downplays how _awful_ what she went through was. Moser set out explicitly to crush her, to humiliate her, and ultimately have her murdered by her own brother and only family. Deb wears her heart on her sleeve and Moser took it and stabbed it about nine thousand times and then threw it back in her face.

_Ugh, she has no idea yet that the two blurry dipshits in the background are the primary drivers behind virtually every future hell in her life..._

Honestly, I think the show itself forgets about it too. The fact that Moser shows up as a shade _twice_ in the series is tasteless to me, especially since the second time (6.7) he's there half the episode and is supposed to be, I don't know, amusing? Likeable? Acceptable? No. Absolutely not. And even the type of background music in the scene where Deb was taken into the garage in 1.12 and then knocked down and knocked out: it's absolutely offensive. There's nothing amusing about watching her getting put down like a dog while bound, gagged, and blindfolded with duct tape. How dare he parachute in in s6 eating pizza and asking Dexter if she was really worth it. It's disgusting to even have to sit there and watch Dexter apparently not remembering that this was the man who wanted him to kill and dismember his sister, presumably starting when she was alive and conscious to know what was happening to her and who was doing it to her.

And in addition we barely get anything at all from her side about how it affected her or how she even explained to herself what happened. We see essentially nothing of the immediate fallout, and by the time we pick up with her again in s2 the worst of the PTSD has passed. She's not _okay_ but she's clearly recovering— from what and how bad we never get to know. We know exactly why Moser targeted her, and so does Dexter, but from her perspective she has essentially no explanation for why he did what he did.

When that sunk in for me it really hit home how absolutely fucked that is and how in her shoes (which is where I was trying to put myself anyway) I couldn't even begin to process _why._ And to some degree that question of why really compounds what happened to her. Why didn't he just abduct and kill her the day they met or any day after? Why did it take almost two months and a marriage proposal? Why did she end up bound to a table in plastic wrap and not hanging upside down in a rack? Why did he leave her there for so long? Why did he choose her? Had he ever done that to other women or was she the first? If she was the first, then why? What did he see in her that he so badly needed to destroy? What had she done to deserve or attract that kind of evil?

And then if you're me and you're writing s1 from her perspective, there's other questions like how long was he stalking her? I'm kind of surprised they never even had her voice how much of this seemed to be directed at her even before they met: the third victim was deposited in the pool of a motel she'd been working, the fifth victim was someone she knew personally. It doesn't feel coincidental. I really get the impression that he must've been stalking her just as much as he was stalking Dexter, and maybe killing her friend and leaving a corpse outside that motel was just another mindfuck. But without the benefit of even knowing about the Moser-Dexter connection until s4, all Deb is left to think is that this serial killer went out of his way to destroy her for no apparent reason. All the mind games with the police department was one thing, but he seduced her and waited until she admitted that she loved him before he finally attacked her.

And again, we know what's going on, but it's years and years before she ever gets any kind of clue, and we never really know for sure if she ever connected all the dots and realized exactly what had happened. The process of imagining what it must've been like to live with that void in the interim has given _me_ nightmares, and that's just a tiny voltage of what it would've actually been like. She absolutely suffered immensely, and that deserves to be recognized. 

_She's just so wonderful and I feel so bad for her and if I have to have another dream about her having her teeth ripped out by Brian Moser I may literally have to write something where one of us kills him._

And so, you know, here's this fic and here's this think piece. I guess ultimately it's my love letter to Deb, though as far as I can remember I started the whole thing because I really wanted an excuse to write the scene that later became “Black” because I just couldn't get the image of her lying on that life raft contemplating her fate out of my mind (even if it did take three quarters of a year to finally write it). But in the process of this past year I've really bonded with her in a way I really can't say I've ever bonded with any of my other narrators— kind of regardless of whether it was OC or fic or a character I'd known for years and years. There's something about Debra Morgan that hits all the right notes for me. She just sort of blasted into my life from way out of left field and then consumed it.

And I'm not saying that because I think anyone necessarily cares about my own motivations. It's just that I truly honestly enthusiastically believe that Deb is a really, really fucking great character, but both the show and even fans have a tendency to gloss her over for reasons that utterly and completely mystify me. Deb is my hero, and all I want is for her to be appreciated _for her sake_. Because not only did she suffer like hell, she's also smart and funny and friggin fantastic as hell, and her pain and her victories and everything in between deserve the spotlight— away from the shadows cast by Dexter and Moser and her fate and whatever else. I'm not going to sit here vainglorious and claim this piece was all 100% in-character perfection, because that would be ridiculous and I definitely got things wrong and even as I write this there are things I would/might change, but I really tried my best to give her the reins whenever I could. I wanted this to be something that the writers or JC could pick up and go “Yeah, I can see it.” Whether or not I succeeded, well, I guess that's up to you.

_At least you'll get to have fun again in s2, Deb. You know, eventually. Briefly._

And with that I'm just gonna stop here. Feel free to comment if you want to.


End file.
